nARGARET 

^NC'ENT 


VINCENT 

a  JQotoet 


By 

MRS.W.  K.CLIFFORD 

AUTHOR  OF 

"LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  WORLDLY  WOMAN' 
"MRS.  KEITH'S  CRIME"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
HARPER    £r     BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS     1902 


Copyright,  ,902,  by  HARPBR  &  BROTHER*. 

AU  rifktt  mtrvtd. 

Published  April,  1901. 


MARGARET   VINCENT 


i 

MARGARET  VINCENT  is  the  heroine  of  this  story, 
but  there  are  others  who  play  important  parts 
in  it.  Her  grandfather  was  old  Lord  Eastleigh, 
well  known  in  his  day,  fascinating  and  happy- 
go-lucky,  who,  when  he  had  spent  his  patrimony 
in  extravagant  living,  and  disgraced  himself  as 
a  guinea-pig,  discreetly  died,  leaving  his  elder 
son,  Cyril  Vincent,  all  his  debts  and  most  of  his 
difficulties.  Cyril  was  rather  amused  by  the  title, 
added  to  the  debts  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  married 
a  lady  from  the  music-halls,  and,  finding  London 
impossible,  went  a-ranching  with  his  wife  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world.  There  the  life  and  its 
isolation  absorbed  his  energies  and  identification. 
But  that  was  five-and- twenty  years  ago — and  this, 
be  it  said,  is  a  modern  story. 

Gerald,  the  younger  son  and  only  other  survi- 
vor of  the  Eastleigh  family,  distinguished  himself 
at  Oxford,  became  engaged   to  the  daughter  of 
a  bishop,  accepted  a  living  from  his  prospective 
i 


2135384 


___^  1  N  C  E  N  T 

father-in-law,  and  within  six  months  changed 
his  opinions,  threw  up  the  living,  made  him- 
self notorious  in  the  days  when  agnosticism  was 
a  crime,  by  writing  some  articles  that  closed  the 
door  of  every  second  house  in  London  against 
him  and  secured  his  being  promptly  jilted  by  the 
woman  with  whom  he  had  been  in  love.  He  had 
just  two  hundred  a  year,  inherited  from  his  mother. 
His  habits  were  indolent,  his  tastes  simple.  The 
one  desire  left  him  after  the  crash  was  to  get  out 
of  everybody's  sight,  to  think,  and  to  smoke  his 
pipe  in  peace,  and  presently  perhaps  to  write  a 
book  in  which  he  could  freely  express  the  bitter- 
ness packed  away  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  and 
soul.  He  travelled  for  a  few  years,  and  thus  lost 
sight,  much  to  their  satisfaction,  of  all  his  distant  re- 
lations (near  ones,  with  the  exception  of  his  brother, 
he  had  none),  dropped  his  courtesy  title  of  Honora- 
ble, and  became  a  fairly  contented  loafer.  He  was 
an  excellent  walker,  which  was  lucky,  seeing  that 
two  hundred  a  year  will  not  go  far  in  travelling 
expenses,  so  he  trudged  over  every  pass  in  Swit- 
zerland, up  Mont  Blanc  and  the  Matterhora,  down 
into  Italy  over  the  St.  Gothard — there  was  no  rail 
then,  of  course — and  back  by  the  Corniche  road  to 
France;  up  France  by  Avignon  and  Dijon  to  Paris, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  few  years  back  to  England  to 
realize  that  he  was  thoroughly  well  forgotten. 
The  streets  of  London  irritated  him  with  their 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

noise,  and  the  people  with  their  hurrying.  The 
pavement  tired  his  feet,  the  manner  of  life — that  is, 
the  manner  of  life  to  be  had  on  so  small  an  income 
as  his — he  found  irritating  and  almost  impossible. 
One  day  he  packed  a  knapsack,  filled  his  pouch, 
walked  through  Putney  and  Wandsworth  and  on- 
ward. He  breathed  more  freely  when  he  reached 
Wimbledon,  which  had  then  an  almost  rustic  rail- 
way station  and  not  a  building  near  it,  drew  a 
long  breath  at  Surbiton,  and,  blessing  the  beauti- 
ful county  of  Surrey,  trudged  on  with  a  light  heart. 
It  was  thus  that  he  arrived  at  Chidhurst  and  dis- 
covered Woodside  Farm. 

Chidhurst  is  some  miles  from  Farnham,  from 
Liphook  and  Fernhurst,  from  Blackdown  and 
Hindhead — from  anywhere,  in  fact,  with  which 
the  reader  may  try  to  identify  it.  Its  nearest  sta- 
tion is  Haslemere,  and  that  is  five  or  six  miles  off. 
The  village  consists  of  a  few  cottages,  one  of  which 
is  a  general  shop  and  the  other  a  small  beer-house. 
Against  the  side  wall  of  the  beer-house  there  is  a 
pillar-box,  but  stamps  have  to  be  bought  at  Hasle- 
mere or  of  the  local  postman.  There  is  not  even 
a  smithy,  man  and  beast  must  alike  travel  three 
good  miles  to  be  reshod — to  the  blacksmith's  near 
the  cobbler's  on  the  common.  A  little  way  from 
the  village,  standing  high  among  the  wooded  land 
on  the  right,  is  the  church.  It  is  half  covered  with 
ivy;  there  are  whte  tombstones  round  it,  and  on 
3 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

its  square  tower  a  clock  that  is  seldom  right  and 
never  to  be  trusted.  From  the  churchyard  there 
is  a  divine  view :  fir  woods  in  the  foreground,  beech 
woods  to  the  left,  heather  moors  to  the  right,  and 
blue  in  the  distance — soft  and  misty  in  the  memory 
of  those  who  love  them— are  the  Surrey  hills.  A 
beautiful  spot  to  stay  and  muse  in  on  a  drowsy 
summer  day,  a  blessed  one  to  sleep  in  when  time 
has  met  eternity. 

A  mile  from  the  church,  farther  into  the  heart 
of  the  country,  by  the  road-side,  there  is  a  duck- 
pond,  and  just  beyond  it,  on  the  right  again,  a  green 
lane  with  high,  close-growing  hedges  on  either 
side,  of  sweet-briar  and  bramble,  honeysuckle 
and  travellers'-joy,  while  low  down  are  clumps 
of  heather  and  the  tender  green  of  the  wortleberry. 
There  are  deep  ruts  along  the  lane,  suggesting 
that  heavy  carts  come  and  go,  and  presently,  on 
the  right  also,  are  the  gates  of  Woodside  Farm. 
Inside  the  farm  gates  there  is  another  duck-pond ; 
and  there  are  haystacks  and  out-buildings,  and 
all  the  signs  of  thriving  agricultural  life.  Just 
beyond  the  wide,  untidy  drive  you  can  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  Dutch  garden,  with  its  green  paths 
and  yew  hedges,  its  roses  and  sweet  peas.  The 
house  is  an  old  one ;  moss  and  ivy  and  lichen  grown  ; 
a  porch,  with  a  seat  in  it,  to  the  front  door,  and 
latticed  panes  to  the  window.  The  door  opens 
into  a  square  hall  or  living-place,  red  tiled  and 
4 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

black  beamed.  On  either  side  of  the  big  fireplace 
there  used  to  be  a  heavy  wooden  chair  with  carved 
and  substantial  arms  and  a  red  cushion  tied  on  its 
back ;  in  the  centre  of  the  room  a  large  oak  table  ; 
against  the  wall  a  dresser,  an  old  chest,  an  eight- 
day  clock,  and  a  portrait  of  Queen  Victoria  in  her 
coronation  robes.  It  was  here  that  the  Barton 
family  always  sat;  for  the  best  rooms  were  let  to 
strangers  in  the  summer  and  carefully  covered  and 
darkened  in  the  winter.  Going  up  from  the  living- 
place  was  a  wide  staircase,  old  and  worm-eaten, 
with  a  dark  hand-rail  to  it,  that  many  a  dweller  in 
distant  cities  would  have  been  glad  to  buy  for  an 
extravagant  sum.  Beyond  the  staircase  was  a  door 
leading  to  the  red-tiled  kitchen,  where  Towsey  Pook, 
the  house-servant,  who  had  lived  at  Woodside  Farm 
for  forty  years,  did  such  work  as  was  required  of 
her — which  meant  on  an  average  fourteen  hours  a 
day  given  over  to  labor  or  thought  of  labor;  but 
she  was  a  strong  woman,  and  well  content. 

Mrs.  Barton  owned  the  farm  in  her  own  right  at 
the  time  when  Gerald  Vincent  set  out  on  the  walk 
that  ended  at  Chidhurst.  It  had  descended  from 
father  to  son,  or  mother  to  daughter,  for  full  two 
hundred  years.  The  tradition  was  likely  to  be 
kept  up,  since  at  well-turned  five-and-thirty,  after 
eleven  years  of  uneventful  matrimony,  Mrs.  Barton 
had  found  herself  a  widow  with  one  child,  a  girl 
called  Hannah. 

5 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Now,  Hannah,  even  at  nine  years  old,  was  an 
uncompromising  little  person— a  singer  of  hymns 
and  observer  of  people;  and  this  she  owed  to  her 
maternal  grandparents,  thriving  farmers  and  dis- 
senters, living  at  Petersfield.  Her  father,  one  of 
a  large  family,  had  done  well  for  himself  by  his 
marriage,  since  through  it  he  became  the  master 
of  Woodside  Farm,  which  was  the  reason,  perhaps, 
that  his  people  had  made  no  objection  to  the  church- 
going  of  his  wife,  or  even  of  the  child.  After  all, 
too,  the  service  at  Chidhurst  was  a  strictly  evangel- 
ical one — the  sermon  had  been  known  to  last  near 
upon  fifty  minutes,  and  something  has  to  be  con- 
ceded to  those  who  hold  property  in  their  own 
right.  Unluckily,  when  she  was  eight  years  old, 
her  father  being  delicate,  and  she  in  the  way  at 
home,  Hannah  went  to  stay  at  Petersfield.  Her 
grandfather,  a  stern  old  Methodist,  initiated  habits 
and  imbued  her  with  notions  that  took  deep  root 
in  her  nature,  so  that,  when  two  years  later  she 
returned  to  Woodside  Farm  to  comfort  her  lonely 
mother,  the  result  of  his  training  was  already 
evident.  She  was  a  plain  child,  and  a  plain  woman 
later,  with  hard,  gray-blue  eyes  and  fair  hair 
drawn  back  from  her  forehead,  a  pink  color  that 
cov/ld  never  be  counted  a  bloom,  and  a  somewhat 
thin  face,  with  a  straight  mouth  and  pointed  chin; 
moreover,  she  had  a  voice  that  suggested  a  strong 
will  and  a  narrow  outlook. 
6 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

It  was  a  full  year  after  James  Barton's  death 
that  Gerald  Vincent  first  set  eyes  on  the  village 
of  Chidhurst,  and  was  charmed  by  it.  He  looked 
carefully  from  right  to  left,  hesitated,  and  stopped 
at  the  little  shop  to  ask  if  there  were  any  rooms  to 
be  had  for  the  summer. 

"There's  a  house,  sir,"  said  the  woman;  "it 
stands  back  among  the  trees,  just  as  you  come  to 
the  church.  It  was  built  for  a  vicarage,  but  Mr. 
Walford  found  it  too  big,  so  it's  let  to  strangers." 

"I  don't  want  a  house,"  the  stranger  said,  im- 
patiently. 

Then  a  voice  from  the  back  called  out,  "There's 
Woodside  Farm,  mother." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  the  woman.  "The  rooms 
have  never  been  let  since  James  Barton  was  first 
took  ill ;  but  I  dare  say  she'll  be  glad  to  get  some- 
body. You  go  past  the  church  and  along  the  road 
till  you  come  to  the  duck-pond,  then  turn  off  to  the 
right  and  walk  on  till  you  see  it." 

Mrs.  Barton  was  spreading  the  white  linen,  which 
Towsey  Pook  had  just  washed,  over  the  bushes 
in  the  Dutch  garden,  when  suddenly  she  beheld 
not  ten  yards  away  a  tall  man  in  gray  tweed,  with 
dust-covered  shoes  and  a  knapsack  on  his  shoulders. 
He  was  young — thirty  or  less,  though  at  a  first 
glance  he  might  have  been  older;  he  looked  studi- 
ous, and  as  if  he  were  a  somebody,  Mrs.  Barton 
told  herself  later.  His  manner  was  a  little  awk- 
7 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

ward  for  the  moment,  but  in  his  eye  was  courteous 
inquiry.  The  widow  stopped  and  criticised  him 
with  quiet  excitement,  while  he  thought  how  good 
a  picture  she  made  with  the  sunflowers  and  sweet 
peas  on  either  side  of  her,  and  the  rose-bushes  and 
patches  of  white  linen  spread  out  to  dry  in  the 
foreground;  and  the  yew  hedges  and  the  taller 
greenery  behind  added  to  the  effect  of  her.  For 
she  was  comely  still,  though  she  was  nearly  seven- 
and-thirty  by  this  time ;  not  stout,  or  even  inclined 
that  way,  since,  being  an  active  woman,  she  took 
plenty  of  exercise  and  worried  over  much  in  secret, 
which  prevented  the  spoiling  of  her  figure. 

Mr.  Vincent  asked  if  it  would  be  possible  to 
have  some  bread-and-butter  and  tea,  to  which 
she  assented  readily;  and  while  he  ate  and  drank 
in  the  living-place,  he  explained  that  he  wanted 
to  find  a  lodging  in  the  neighborhood,  to  which 
he  could  bring  his  books  and  peacefully  read  and 
write  for  a  few  months.  He  hardly  liked  to  pro- 
pose himself  as  a  lodger  all  at  once,  for  there  was 
an  air  of  something  that  was  almost  distinction 
about  the  widow;  it  made  him  feel  that  if  there 
were  any  social  difference  between  them  the  ad- 
vantage was  on  her  side.  She  stood  at  first  be- 
side the  oak  table,  and  then  was  persuaded  to  sit, 
and  she  made  a  picture,  framed  in  one  of  the  big 
arm-chairs,  that  he  never  forgot,  while  she  ex- 
plained that  there  was  a  spare  room  that  had  not 
8 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

been  slept  in  for  three  years  past,  and  the  best 
parlor  that  had  not  been  used  since  Barton's  fu- 
neral day.  She  bethought  herself  of  the  odor  of 
mustiness  which  was  beginning  to  pervade  them 
both,  since  she  had  grudged  a  fire  by  which  no 
one  sat  and  gathered  warmth.  The  farm  prod- 
uce, too,  was  good  and  plentiful ;  it  would  be  easy 
to  feed  the  stranger,  and  his  stay  would  put  some 
easily  earned  pounds  into  her  pocket.  Thus  the 
arrangement  came  about,  and  each  of  them  was 
satisfied. 

He  stayed  all  through  the  summer  months, 
and  when  the  autumn  came  he  showed  no  signs 
of  going.  The  widow  grew  more  and  more  in- 
terested in  him,  and  they  often — he  being  a  lonely 
man  and  she  a  lonely  woman,  and  both  uncon- 
sciously aware  of  it — had  an  hour's  talk  together; 
but  it  was  a  long  time  before  it  was  other  than 
rather  awkward  and  even  formal  talk.  Sometimes 
as  he  passed  through  the  house  to  his  own  rooms 
he  stopped  to  notice  Hannah;  but  she  was  always 
ill  at  ease  with  him,  and  hurried  away  as  fast 
as  possible.  He  heard  her  speaking  to  Towsey 
sometimes,  and  occasionally  even  to  her  mother, 
in  a  way  that  made  him  call  her  "a  spiteful  little 
cat"  to  himself;  but  it  was  no  concern  of  his; 
there  was  nothing  of  the  cat  about  the  mother, 
and  that  was  the  main  thing. 

Mrs.  Barton  was  surprised  at  first  that  her  lodger 
9 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

did  not  go  to  church  on  Sundays,  and  the  neigh- 
bors were  curious  about  it,  which  embarrassed  her ; 
but  she  felt  that  it  was  no  business  of  hers,  and 
that,  since  Mr.  Vincent  was  evidently  above  them 
in  position  and  learning,  it  did  not  become  them 
to  make  remarks.  Besides,  as  Towsey  was  always 
busy  in  the  kitchen  at  the  back,  it  was  comfortable 
to  remember,  while  she  herself  was  in  church  on 
Sunday  mornings,  that  some  one  was  left  in  the 
house  who  might  be  called  a  protection  to  it;  for 
tramps  had  been  known  to  come  so  far,  and  even 
such  a  thing  as  a  fire  might  happen.  So  when  she 
departed  in  her  alpaca  gown  with  crape  trimmings, 
her  widow's  cap  inside  her  bonnet,  and  her  prayer- 
book  and  black  -  edged  handkerchief  (she  had  six 
of  a  goodly  size  and  serviceable  thickness)  in  her 
hand,  across  the  fields  with  Hannah  by  the  short 
cut  to  the  church,  it  was  with  a  sense  of  calm  con- 
tentment. Mr.  Vincent  used  to  stand  in  the  porch 
and  watch  them  start;  then,  filling  his  pipe,  he 
smoked  in  peace,  and  revelled  in  the  extra  quiet 
o!  the  Sabbath  day.  The  incumbent  of  St.  Mar- 
tha's, a  man  of  no  particular  attainments,  who 
had  slipped  into  orders  through  the  back  door  of  a 
minor  theological  college,  had  thought  of  calling 
on  the  stranger  and  tackling  him  about  his  soul, 
till  lie  heard  incidentally  that  one  of  the  writers 
of  Essays  and  Reviews,  who  had  been  staying 
at  Guildford,  had  driven  over  to  Woodside  Farm. 
10 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Then  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  might 
possibly  get  worsted  in  argument,  and  it  would 
be  the  better  part  of  valor  to  leave  his  doubtful 
parishioner  in  peace,  even  though  it  ended  in 
perdition. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


II 

FOR  two  summers  and  a  winter  Gerald  Vincent 
lodged  at  Woodside  Farm.  He  was  a  singularly 
silent  man,  and  Mrs.  Barton  knew  no  more  about 
him  in  the  last  month  than  she  had  done  in  the 
first.  But  gradually  she  grew  fond  of  him.  She 
watched  him  out  of  sight  when  he  went  for  his 
walks,  and  felt  her  heart  bound  when  she  heard 
his  returning  footsteps.  The  best  roses  were  cut 
for  his  writing-table,  the  ripest  fruit  for  his  dessert 
and  breakfast,  and  once  when  she  lingered  in  the 
best  parlor,  dusting  it  before  he  was  down,  she 
lifted  a  half-written  slip  and  kissed  it,  knowing 
that  his  hand  must  have  rested  on  it;  for  youth 
does  not  monopolize  romance,  and  even  eight-and- 
thirty  can  know  its  agitations.  After  a  time 
Mr.  Vincent  became  aware  of  her  feeling  for  him; 
it  embarrassed  him  a  good  deal,  but  he  was  touched 
by  it.  Then  he  realized  almost  with  surprise  the 
clear  outline  of  her  face  and  the  sweet,  firm  curve 
of  her  lips.  He  told  himself  of  her  merits,  her 
domestic  virtues,  and  the  manner  in  which,  single- 
handed  and  calm-headed,  she  managed  the  farm. 
Gradually  it  came  about  that,  instead  of  staying 
12 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

in  his  own  room  in  the  evening,  he  sat  with  her — 
he  on  one  side  and  she  on  the  other  of  the  great 
fireplace  in  the  living-room;  and  the  companion- 
ship was  all  the  more  pleasant  because  Hannah 
was  away.  For  Hannah  was  a  good  twelve  years 
old  by  this  time,  and,  for  the  sake  of  school  ad- 
vantages, staying  with  her  grandparents  at  Peters- 
field,  where  she  learned  more  and  more  fervently 
to  despise  the  particular  forms  of  the  devil  and 
all  his  works  in  which  those  who  were  not  of  her 
own  way  of  thinking  most  delighted. 

It  was  on  those  evenings,  and  while  Mrs.  Barton 
knitted  socks  which  he  knew  well  enough  would 
be  offered  to  himself,  that  Mr.  Vincent  noticed  the 
disappearance,  first  of  crape  and  then  of  black  in 
the  widow's  dress.  He  saw,  too,  the  little  arts, 
such  as  an  odd  bit  of  finery  and  the  management 
of  her  hair  by  which  she  strove  to  add  to  her  at- 
tractions, and  he  never  pretended  to  himself  that 
he  misunderstood  them.  He  realized,  too,  the 
good  points  of  her  figure — the  set-back  of  her 
shoulders,  and  that  she  was  tall  and  had  a  certain 
presence,  even  dignity,  born  of  adherence  to  simple 
rules  of  life.  And  somehow,  in  a  quiet,  unexcited 
way,  he  became  fascinated.  Here  was  the  natural 
human  being,  he  thought,  as  God  had  meant  it 
to  be,  unadulterated  by  scholarship  or  passion  or 
knowledge  of  the  world.  He  felt  that  he  and  she 
and  nature  made  a  trinity  framed  by  the  Surrey 
13 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

hills  and  all  the  beautiful  country  round  them. 
He  wanted  no  other  home  than  the  farm,  no  other 
method  of  getting  about  than  the  brown,  wooden 
cart  and  the  broken- winded  cob,  no  other  companion 
than  this  sedate  woman  who  knew  nothing  of  his 
history  or  inward  life,  yet  who  somehow  gave  all 
his  thoughts  a  setting,  and  put  him  into  moods 
that  helped  him  to  write  down  many  things  that 
he  hoped  some  day  to  give  to  the  world.  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  say  how  these  things  come  about,  or  what 
will  lead  a  man  and  woman  knowing  little  of  each 
other  to  marry;  but  the  unaccountable  happens 
too  often  to  need  dilating  upon,  and  the  great  facts 
of  life  that  stare  us  in  the  face  occasionally  make 
in  themselves  a  grotesque  argument  in  favor  of 
spontaneous  generation.  Thus  it  happened  that 
one  night,  after  a  long  silence,  Gerald  Vincent  said, 
quite  simply: 

"Mrs.  Barton,  I  have  been  wondering  lately 
whether  it  is  right  of  me  to  go  on  staying  at  the 
farm  on  our  present  footing?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Vincent!"  She  looked  up  at  him 
with  her  pure,  grave  eyes,  and  surprise  was  in 
her  voice.  "I'm  sure,  if  James  knew,  he'd  like 
to  feel  that  you  were  here." 

"I  wonder  if  he  would;  I  have  heard  that  he 
was  a  godly  man,  and  I  am  not." 

"Don't  say  that,"  she  answered,  anxiously. 
"  I've  always  held  with  doing  what  was  right  rather 
14 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

than  with  the  saying  of  prayers,  though  James's 
people,  of  course,  are  different  and  very  strict  in 
their  notions." 

"You  know  nothing  about  me,"  he  said,  going 
on  with  his  own  train  of  thoughts,  "  of  my  family, 
nor  my  doings  before  I  came  here,  and  yet  I  have 
been  wondering  if  you  would  marry  me?"  It 
did  not  seem  necessary  to  him  to  tell  her  that  his 
father  had  been  a  peer,  or  that  his  brother  had  made 
a  foolish  marriage  and  gone  to  the  Antipodes, 
or  that  he  himself  had  thrown  over  the  church 
and  wrecked  his  prospects  on  a  metaphysical 
rock.  These  things,  and  knowledge  of  them, 
were  so  far  outside  her  world  and  thoughts  that 
telling  her  could  serve  no  good  end.  It  was  better 
to  be  silent. 

She  went  on  with  her  knitting  for  half  a  minute, 
then  put  it  down  and  asked,  and  there  was  a  some- 
thing in  her  voice  that  reached  his  heart:  "Do 
you  mean  that  you've  got  to  care  for  me?" 

"I  think  you  are  the  kindest  soul  in  the  world," 
he  said,  and  his  own  voice  was  not  very  steady, 
"and  too  young  still,  and  too  handsome,"  he  add- 
ed, with  a  little  smile,  "  for  it  to  be  right  that  I  should 
go  on  living  here,  whether  it  is  as  your  lodger  or 
your  friend.  We  have  been  friends  for  a  long 
time,  you  know — " 

"I  have  come  to  think  of  you  as  one,"  she  said, 
simply. 

15 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"You  wouldn't  like  me  to  live  anywhere  else?" 

"I  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  it/'  she  an- 
swered under  her  breath. 

"  But  I  can't  go  on  staying  here,  except  as  your 
husband.  I  think  we  could  be  content  enough." 

She  turned  her  head  away  from  him ;  a  happy 
smile  struggled  to  her  lips.  He  saw  that  she 
trembled.  He  rose  and  pulled  her  gently  from  her 
seat,  and  they  stood  together  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  what  folk  would  say." 

"Does  it  matter?  We  shall  live  outside  the 
world,  not  in  it." 

"And  then  you  never  go  to  church?" 

"  I  will  make  an  exception  to  the  rule  by  taking 
you  there  for  half  an  hour  while  the  parson  prays 
over  us.  How  is  it  to  be?  Perhaps  you  should 
think  it  over  before  you  answer.  I  have  noth- 
ing to  give  you — " 

"Oh — "  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him 
reproachfully. 

"I  am  a  poor  man,  with  a  couple  of  hundred  a 
year,  and  no  more  to  come.  I  can  be  no  help  to 
you  in  your  home,  but  I  want  nothing  more  from 
it  than  I  have  now.  You  can  keep  it  all  for  Hannah 
by-and-by.  Well?"  he  asked  again. 

With  a  little  sigh  she  drew  closer  to  him.  "I 
couldn't  say  'No/  Mr.  Vincent,  for  I'm  fonder  of 
16 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

you  than  of  any  one  in  the  world."  He  tried  to 
look  into  her  eyes,  but  they  were  downcast,  and  a 
twitch  came  to  her  lips.  He  stooped  and  kissed 
her  forehead,  and  waited  till  she  spoke  again. 
"You'll  be  good  to  Hannah?"  she  said, anxiously. 
"You  see  she  won't  be  away  so  much  by-and-by, 
and  she'll  look  to  come  to  her  home.  You  wouldn't 
interfere  with  her?" 

"My  dear  soul,  I  should  interfere  with  nothing. 
I  don't  know  why  I  am  trying  to  disturb  our  present 
relationship,  except  that  it  seems  to  be  the  only 
way  of  preventing  it  from  coming  to  an  end. 
Things  will  go  on  just  the  same  as  they  have  done. 
I  don't  propose  to  alter  anything.  We  will  be 
married  one  morning  at  Haslemere — or  Guildford, 
perhaps;  no  one  will  be  likely  to  come  upon  us 
there  —  and  Woodside  Farm  will  be  Woodside 
Farm  still,  though  you  are  Mrs.  Vincent.  We  will 
settle  down  for  the  rest  of  our  lives  and  let  nothing 
in  the  distance  disturb  us." 

"I  will  make  you  as  comfortable  as  I  can,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  at  which  he  smiled  a  little  rue- 
fully and  looked  round  the  living-room.  Then 
he  put  his  arms  slowly  round  her  and  drew  her 
to  him  with  quiet  affection  and  as  if  he  thought 
their  new  relationship  demanded  it.  This  was 
their  sober  betrothal. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


III 

THE  folk  at  Chidhurst  village  and  at  the  out- 
lying farms  talked  a  good  deal  when  they  heard 
that  Mrs.  Barton  was  going  to  be  married  to  Gerald 
Vincent — for  somehow  it  soon  came  to  be  known. 
He  was  a  stranger,  and  nearly  eight  years  her 
junior;  they  had  discovered  this,  and  one  or  two 
other  things  concerning  him,  that  he  had  two 
hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  did  no  work  save 
writing — writing  books,  perhaps,  which  was  not 
work  at  all,  but  the  sort  of  thing  that  people  did 
when  they  had  nothing  else  to  do.  And  then  he 
never  went  to  church  or  chapel,  it  was  a  strange 
and  awful  thing  to  them  to  see  in  the  living  flesh, 
to  have  as  a  neighbor,  even  though  they  saw  but 
little  of  him,  some  one  who  was  certainly  going 
to  be  damned  hereafter.  They  were  sorry  for 
him  in  a  way ;  for  he  was  good-looking,  and  when 
occasion  offered  gave  his  money  freely;  moreover, 
they  felt  sure  that  his  people  had  been  above  the 
common.  So  they  tried  to  make  things  a  little 
pleasant  to  him  in  this  world  by  showing  him 
politeness  and  extra  consideration;  but  the  fact 
of  what  was  in  store  for  him  could  not  be  doubted. 
18 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

When  the  Petersfield  relations  heard  the  news 
they  thought  it  their  bounden  duty  to  promptly 
take  the  train  to  Haslemere,  and  then  to  commit 
the  untold  extravagance  of  hiring  a  fly  to  carry 
them  to  Woodside  Farm.  They  would  have  told 
their  daughter-in-law  to  send  the  brown  cart  to 
meet  them;  but  they  hoped  by  not  giving  notice 
of  their  coming  to  catch  the  unbeliever  in  his 
iniquity.  They  had  a  vague  idea  that  he  was 
horned  and  carried  a  pitchfork;  and  they  would 
not  have  been  surprised  at  finding  a  faint  odor  of 
brimstone  about  the  place.  They  looked  sharply 
round  or  arriving,  and  were  disappointed  at  not 
seeing  him ;  then  they  made  the  best  of  the  situation 
by  at  once  sitting  down  in  the  living-room  and 
arguing  with  Mrs.  Barton.  In  ten  minutes  at 
most  they  hoped  to  make  her  see  the  folly  of  her 
position,  and  that  it  would  not  only  be  flying  in 
the  face  of  Providence,  which  had  always  made 
her  comfortable  in  this  world,  but  a  disrespect  to 
James  Barton,  dead  and  gone  to  the  next,  if  she 
married  a  man  not  good  enough  to  lie  in  the  family 
grave  if  it  pleased  the  Lord  to  take  him  also. 

"But  one  of  the  things  I  like  him  for,"  she  said, 
"is  that  he  is  a  good  deal  younger  than  I  am,  so 
most  likely  it's  he  that  will  have  the  burying  to 
do  this  time — it'll  save  me  a  world  of  trouble." 

This  was  a  point  of  view  they  had  not  considered, 
and  were  unprepared  to  argue,  so  they  tried  a 
19 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

fresh  one.  There  was  Hannah.  Had  she  re- 
membered that  Hannah  would  have  to  live  in 
the  same  house  with  him,  too?  Oh  yes;  and  after 
being  used  to  a  man  about  the  place  at  Petersfield, 
she  thought  it  would  be  so  good  for  Hannah  to 
feel  there  was  one  over  her  at  Woodside  Farm — an 
indirect  compliment  that  somewhat  pacified  old 
Mr.  Barton.  Moreover  he  was  touched  with  the 
respect  with  which  his  daughter-in-law  listened 
to  all  he  had  to  say,  and  the  sincerity  in  her  voice 
when  she  regretted  that  Mr.  Vincent  had  walked 
over  to  Lynchmere  and  would  not  be  back  till  past 
tea-time.  She  was  sure  he  would  have  liked  to 
meet  James's  relations;  but  perhaps  they  would 
be  able  to  stay  till  he  returned? 

"When  he  comes,"  said  Mrs.  Barton  the  elder, 
"I  hope  you  will  see  that  it  is  your  duty  to  give 
him  up,  especially  after  the  trouble  that  we  have 
taken  in  coming  over.  We  should  like  to  hear 
you  tell  him  so  before  we  leave." 

But  the  younger  woman  was  quite  calm  and 
collected,  and  tried  to  change  the  subject.  "  Won't 
you  sit  a  little  nearer  to  the  fire,  father?"  she  asked 
the  old  man;  "it's  a  rough  road  from  Haslemere, 
and  you  must  be  tired  with  your  drive.  You  should 
have  come  in  time  for  dinner;  you  will  have  to  be 
starting  so  soon  after  you  have  done  your  tea." 

"  We  didn't  come  over  for  meals,  Annie,  but  on 
more  important  business,"  he  answered. 
20 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Mrs.  Barton  went  to  the  oak  chest  and  took  out 
a  fresh  damask  tablecloth  and  put  it  on  the  table. 
Then  she  stood  up  beside  it,  as  she  had  done  on 
the  first  day  that  Gerald  Vincent  came  to  the  farm. 

"I  don't  want  to  show  you  any  want  of  respect/' 
she  said,  firmly;  "  but  it's  no  good  saying  anything 
about  Mr.  Vincent,  for  I  am  going  to  marry  him, 
and  his  religion  makes  no  difference.  He  has 
given  up  a  great  deal  because  he  would  not  make  a 
pretence;  he  has  thought  about  things,  and  read 
and  studied,  and  if  he  thinks  they  are  not  true 
he  has  a  right  to  say  it.  I  think  God  will  respect 
a  man  who  says  out  honestly  what  he  feels.  There 
are  some  who  haven't  courage  to  do  it,  and  I  know 
this — I'd  rather  have  his  chance  in  the  next  world 
than  the  chance  of  many  a  man  who  lifts  his  voice 
in  Petersfield  chapel  at  prayer-meeting  on  Sunday 
nights.  If  he  doesn't  get  to  heaven  because  he 
has  faith,  why,  he'll  get  there  because  he's  honest." 

"And  what  do  you  think  James  would  say?" 
asked  old  Mrs.  Barton. 

"James  knew  it  would  be  hard  for  me  to  manage 
alone.  I'll  be  proud  to  stand  up  and  tell  him  how 
Mr.  Vincent  came  and  took  care  of  me  after  I  was 
left— he'll  be  glad  enough." 

"Not  when  it's  an  unbeliever,  Annie — " 

"A  man  that's  honest  and  speaks  the  truth, 
even  though  it  makes  people  turn  against  him, 
mother." 

21 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

The  old  people  began  to  feel  uncomfortable. 
Tears  or  excitement  they  could  have  done  with, 
but  this  quiet  determination  was  more  difficult  to 
fight. 

"  Have  you  thought  of  the  example  for  Hannah?" 
they  asked,  harking  back  to  what  they  felt  to  be  a 
strong  point  in  their  favor. 

"I  have  thought  of  everything,"  she  said,  lifting 
her  calm  eyes.  "  He'll  not  interfere  with  Hannah ; 
she'll  be  allowed  to  go  to  Petersfield  whenever 
you  want  her,  and  she'll  go  to  church  just  the 
same;  and  so  shall  I."  She  turned  to  old  Mrs. 
Barton  and  went  on :  "  Hannah  is  James's  child, 
and  she'll  be  brought  up  as  James's  people  wish. 
She  is  a  girl  that  will  have  a  will  of  her  own — she 
has  got  it  already,  and  it  will  grow.  There  is  no 
occasion  to  be  anxious  about  her." 

"And  what's  to  become  of  the  farm?" 

"The  farm  will  stand  where  it  is.  I  shall  deal 
fairly  by  it  for  Hannah,  if  that's  what  you  are 
thinking  of." 

Then  the  old  man  came  to  the  rescue.  "God 
will  not  have  mercy  on  you  hereafter,  Annie,  if 
you  marry  this  unbeliever." 

"Father,  I  will  trust  God  to  deal  fairly  by  me. 
He'll  not  do  less  than  man. "  She  paused  a  moment 
and  then  went  on :  "  You  mustn't  think  I  haven't 
thought  it  over,  for  I  have.  We  must  all  work 
out  our  salvation  for  ourselves,  and  if  we  start 

22 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

from  different  points,  and  if  Mr.  Vincent  has  chosen 
a  different  road  that  we  don't  go  along  ourselves, 
why,  I  think  the  end  will  be  the  same  for  us  all 
who  try  to  do  our  best.  It  would  be  shaking  one's 
confidence  in  God  to  think  different.  But  you'll 
be  wanting  your  tea,  and  it  will  be  better  than 
arguing  about  a  man  you  don't  understand,  and 
one  that  I  am  going  to  marry,  say  what  you  will." 

"I  never  thought  you'd  be  so  obstinate,  Annie/' 
Mrs.  Barton  said. 

But  nothing  moved  the  mistress  of  Woodside 
Farm,  and  the  old  people  felt  their  visit  to  be  a 
mistake.  They  had  not  gained  their  point  by 
coming;  on  the  contrary,  they  were  going  away 
beaten,  and  they  didn't  like  the  position.  They 
even  began  to  cherish  a  latent  hope  that  Mr. 
Vincent  would  not  return  before  they  left,  lest 
they  should  come  off  second  best  in  argument 
with  him  too.  Meanwhile,  they  made  a  large 
and  mournful  meal  with  the  air  of  folk  at  a  funeral 
feast,  for  they  felt  that  it  might  be  the  last  time 
they  would  sit  round  the  big  oak  table.  Luckily 
the  tea  was  strong  and  the  cream  thick.  Towsey's 
scones  were  admirable,  the  strawberries  in  the 
jam  were  whole,  and  the  poached  eggs  and  ham 
done  to  a  turn.  Then  the  fly  was  brought  to  the 
door,  a  reproachful  farewell  taken  of  Mrs.  Barton, 
and  the  disconsolate  pair  drove  away  towards 
Haslemere  station. 

23 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Gerald  Vincent  and  Mrs.  Barton  were  married 
a  month  later.  Outwardly  it  made  little  difference 
in  their  relations.  The  best  parlor  was  still  his 
own  retreat,  and  his  books  and  papers  were  scattered 
about  with  a  happy  confidence  that  no  hands  but 
his  own  would  touch  them.  In  the  evening  he 
generally  sat  in  the  living-place  with  his  wife; 
he  liked  its  gauntness,  the  big  fireplace,  the  old 
oak  table,  the  comfortable  chairs,  and  the  heavy 
door  that  in  the  summer-time  stood  wide  open 
and  let  in,  from  the  Dutch  garden  beyond  the 
porch,  the  scent  of  flowers,  the  stir  of  leaves,  and 
the  rustling  sound  from  the  tall  trees  behind.  In 
the  winter  there  was  the  crackle  of  the  beech  logs, 
the  flickering  of  the  candles  in  the  double  candle- 
sticks with  japanned  shades,  and  the  long,  deep 
shadows  on  the  walls.  It  was  all  old-world-like 
and  peaceful.  He  wondered  that  he  had  ever 
endured  the  hurry  and  noise  of  towns.  In  the 
first  year  he  used  to  read  to  his  wife — Scott  and 
Kingsley  and  other  authors  that  he  thought  might 
interest  her.  She  was  always  appreciative,  and 
from  her  pure-hearted  outlook  even  gave  some 
criticism  that  was  worth  hearing,  though  she 
never  became  cultured  in  any  sense.  But  simple 
though  she  remained,  Gerald  Vincent  was  never 
ashamed  of  her,  and  she  never  bored  him.  He 
felt  that  daily  life,  or  such  portion  of  it  as  he  spent 
with  her,  was  to  his  soul  pretty  much  what  a  cool 
24 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

bath  was  to  his  body.  After  a  time  there  was 
Margaret,  a  babe  with  blue  eyes  and  little  double 
fists,  and  then,  seeing  that  the  child  took  up  much 
of  its  mother's  time  and  thought,  he  drew  back 
into  the  isolation  of  the  best  parlor  without  fear 
of  being  thought  neglectful. 

The  Petersfield  relations  kept  Hannah  with 
them  till  she  was  sixteen.  Then,  since  she  had 
left  school,  and  her  hair,  that  always  looked  scanty 
on  the  temples,  was  done  up  into  a  knot  behind, 
and  one  of  her  eye-teeth  had  decayed,  they  thought 
it  well  to  send  her  back  to  the  farm.  But  old  Mr. 
Barton  had  not  talked  to  her  in  vain,  and  she  went 
home  with  a  smothered  resentment  in  her  heart 
that  had  a  touch  of  horror  in  it  towards  the  stranger, 
and  a  shrinking  she  could  never  overcome  towards 
his  child.  She  kept  herself  well  in  hand,  it  is  true, 
and,  except  that  he  could  never  get  behind  her 
reserve  and  somewhat  snappy  manner,  she  and 
Mr.  Vincent  got  on  pretty  well  together,  seeing  that 
they  inhabited  the  same  house.  She  developed 
into  a  thrifty  young  woman  with  a  distinct  capacity 
for  that  state  of  life  in  which  she  found  herself, 
and  with  dissent  so  strong  within  her  that,  within 
a  month  of  her  going  back  to  Woodside  Farm  for 
good,  she  had  begun  secretly  to  store  such  little 
sums  as  she  could  honestly  consider  her  own  in 
order  some  day  to  build  a  chapel  at  Chidhurst. 
Meanwhile,  she  contented  herself  with  the  some- 
25 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

what  dreary  service  at  the  little  church  on  the 
hill. 

To  Mrs.  Vincent  the  years  after  her  marriage 
were  the  happiest  of  her  life.  She  gave  her  hus- 
band a  quiet,  self-contained  worship  that  expressed 
itself  in  many  creature  comforts,  for  which,  from 
sheer  blindness,  he  was  never  sufficiently  grateful. 
But  he  knew  that  he  was  the  whole  world  to  her, 
and,  as  time  went  on,  this  knowledge  was  not  un- 
touched with  dismay  at  finding  that  sometimes  he 
wanted  more  intellectual  sympathy  than  she  was 
able  to  give  him.  But  she  never  guessed  this,  and 
after  her  little  Margaret  was  born  it  seemed  some- 
times as  if  only  tears  would  prevent  her  joy  from 
being  more  than  she  could  bear. 

It  was  during  these  years  that  Hannah  saw  her 
opportunity,  and  little  by  little  managed  to  govern 
her  mother  and  every  one  on  the  farm  with  the 
exception  of  Mr.  Vincent.  Even  Margaret  was 
made  to  feel  that  Hannah  was  mistress  of  the 
situation,  and  the  putting  on  of  a  best  frock  or 
the  arranging  of  a  little  holiday  could  not  be  done 
peacefully  without  asking  her  consent. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


IV 

MR.  VINCENT  and  his  daughter  drew  very  near 
together  as  the  time  came  when  each  from  a 
different  stand-point  unconsciously  hankered  after 
companionship.  She  read  books  with  him,  and 
did  tasks  that  she  found  delightful,  since  they 
kept  her  a  prisoner  in  the  window-seat  of  the  best 
parlor,  whence,  looking  up,  she  could  see  him 
bending  over  his  papers.  He  even  arranged  to 
take  her  to  Guildford  twice  a  week,  so  that  she 
might  have  a  music-lesson  from  the  doctor's  widow, 
who  earned  a  modest  living  by  teaching.  And 
on  her  seventeenth  birthday  he  gave  her  a  piano. 
Its  arrival  was  quite  an  event  at  Woodside  Farm. 

"  It  will  be  a  rare  thing  to  hear  Margaret  play," 
Mrs.  Vincent  said,  as  she  watched  it  being  put  into 
place. 

But  Hannah  was  half  contemptuous.  "  It  would 
have  been  better  to  have  bought  a  good  harmo- 
nium," she  snorted;  "it  might  have  been  useful 
some  d  ay — "  She  broke  off  a  bruptly ,  for  none  knew 
of  her  secret  store  towards  the  chapel ;  and  there  was 
no  occasion  to  speak  of  it,  since  it  had  not  yet 
reached  the  modest  sum  of  twenty  pounds.  Money 
27 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

had  perplexed  Hannah  a  good  deal  of  late ;  there  was 
the  desire  to  put  it  away  for  the  pious  dream  of  her 
soul,  and  the  womanly  impulse  to  spend  it  on  finery 
— hard,  prim  finery.  For  at  Petersfield  there  dwelt 
a  thriving  young  house  agent,  in  a  good  way  of 
business,  smart  -  looking  and  fair  mustached,  and 
possessed  of  a  far-seeing  mother,  who  had  sug- 
gested that  Hannah  would  have  the  farm  and  a 
bit  of  money  some  day,  and  make  a  thrifty  wife 
into  the  bargain.  This  accounted  for  what  might 
be  called  an  investigation  visit  that  Mr.  Garratt 
paid  her  grandparents  one  Sunday  afternoon 
when  Hannah  was  at  Petersfield,  and  his  asking 
her  to  take  him  across  the  field  to  see  a  tree  that 
had  been  struck  by  lightning  the  previous  fort- 
night. Afterwards  he  had  been  pressed  to  stay 
for  tea,  and  his  tone  was  significant  when  he  re- 
marked on  leaving  that  he  had  enjoyed  himself 
very  much,  and  hoped  to  get  over  to  Chidhurst 
one  Sunday  for  the  morning  service,  and  to  see 
the  grave  of  his  aunt  Amelia,  who  was  buried 
there.  Hannah  being  too  grim — it  was  counted 
for  shyness — to  say  anything  pleasant  for  herself, 
old  Mrs.  Barton  had  told  him,  in  a  good  business- 
like tone,  that  when  he  went  he  had  better  look 
out  for  Hannah  and  her  mother,  and  walk  back 
with  them  for  dinner  at  the  farm.  This  was  two 
months  ago,  but  still  Hannah  waited  patiently, 
thinking  that  if  he  appeared  it  might  be  as  well 
28 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

to  hear  what  he  had  to  say,  since  by  this  time  she 
was  well  on  in  her  twenties — at  the  fag  end  of  them, 
in  fact — and  marriage  was  one  of  the  possibilities 
to  be  considered  in  life.  Thus  every  week  brought 
its  excitement  to  her,  and  as  yet  its  disappoint- 
ment. 

Sunday  brought  its  excitement  for  Margaret,  too  ; 
but  it  was  a  happy  one.  For  when  the  country 
folk  were  sheltered  in  the  church  or  busy  with  those 
things  that  kept  them  out  of  sight  she  and  her 
father  had  their  best  time  together.  Then  it  was 
that  they  loitered  about  the  deserted  fields  and 
out-buildings,  or  went  up  to  the  great  beech  woods 
standing  high  behind  the  farm,  and  watched  the 
still  landscape  round  them,  just  as  in  the  first  years 
of  his  coming  Gerald  Vincent  had  watched  it  alone 
from  the  porch.  They  called  the  beech  wood  their 
cathedral — the  great  elms  and  beeches  and  closely 
knit  oak-trees  made  its  roof  and  the  columns  of 
its  aisles — and  it  seemed  as  if  in  their  hearts  they 
celebrated  a  silent  service  there  to  a  mysterious 
God  who  had  made  joy  and  sorrow  and  all  the 
beauty  of  the  earth  and  given  it  to  humanity  for 
good  or  ill.  In  a  sense,  Margaret  had  no  other 
religion.  Her  father  said  that  when  she  was  old 
enough  to  understand  and  think  for  herself  she 
could  make  her  own  beliefs  or  unbeliefs,  meanwhile 
she  need  only  remember  to  tell  the  truth,  to  do  noth- 
ing that  would  cause  another  pain,  and  to  help 
29 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

those  nearest  to  her,  never  considering  their  deserts, 
but  only  their  needs. 

Gradually  Mr.  Vincent  grew  uneasy  concerning 
life  at  the  farm.  For  himself  he  was  content 
enough,  a  little  longer  he  could  be  content  for  Mar- 
garet; but  afterwards?  Besides,  a  reaction  comes 
to  all  things,  and  now  and  then  when  he  saw  the 
far-off  look  in  her  eyes  and  heard  the  eager  note 
in  her  voice — a  sweet,  eager  note  like  that  of  a  bird 
at  dawn — he  felt  the  ghost  of  old  desires  stirring 
within  him,  and  an  uneasy  longing  to  see  the  world 
again,  so  that  he  might  know  what  manner  of 
place  Margaret  would  some  day  find  it.  It  came 
upon  him  with  dismay  that  she  was  growing  up, 
that  this  tall  girl  of  over  seventeen  would  soon  be  a 
woman,  and  that  she  was  going  to  be  beautiful. 
Pale  generally,  and  almost  haughty  looking, 
dreams  in  her  eyes,  and  gold  in  the  brown  of  her 
hair,  and  a  mouth  that  had  her  mother's  sweet, 
curved  lips.  A  girl's  face  and  simple,  but  eager 
and  even  thoughtful,  the  impulses  of  youth  charac- 
terized her  still,  but  womanhood  was  on  its  way, 
and  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  her  happy  laugh, 
her  blue  eyes  looked  as  if  unconsciously  they  knew 
that  tragedy  dwelt  somewhere  in  the  world,  and 
feared  lest  they  should  meet  it.  But  as  yet  Han- 
nah's scoldings  were  the  only  trouble  that  had 
beset  her.  These  were  not  to  be  taken  lightly,  for 
as  she  grew  older  Hannah's  tone  became  harsher, 
30 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

her  manner  more  dominant,  and  the  shrinking 
from  Margaret  and  her  father,  that  she  had  always 
felt,  did  not  grow  less.  Margaret  bore  it  all  fairly 
well,  sometimes  resisting  or  passionately  protesting 
that  she  would  run  away  from  the  farm  and  the 
scold  who  had  taken  its  whole  direction  into  her 
hands,  and  at  others  hiding  herself  in  one  of  the 
lofts  till  the  storm  had  passed.  When  it  was  over 
she  crept  out  to  her  mother — always  to  her  mother 
at  those  times — to  be  soothed  and  caressed.  Even 
Mr.  Vincent  felt  that  Hannah  was  a  hard  nut  to 
crack;  but  he  contented  himself  with  the  thought 
that  some  day  Margaret  would  break  away  from 
her  present  surroundings — a  beautiful  girl,  who  had 
read  a  good  deal  and  was  cultivating  the  habit 
of  thinking,  was  not  likely  to  make  Woodside  Farm 
her  whole  share  of  the  world. 

The  beginning  of  the  end  came  one  October 
morning  in  a  letter  from  his  brother  in  Australia. 
It  had  been  sent  under  cover  to  his  lawyers;  for, 
though  in  a  general  way,  the  brothers  knew  each 
other's  whereabouts,  in  detail  they  knew  nothing. 
Cyril  Vincent  (he  was  now,  of  course,  Lord  East- 
leigh)  was  ill  of  an  incurable  disease,  and  though 
he  had  no  intention  of  returning,  his  thoughts  were 
reaching  out  to  England.  His  early  career  had 
been  a  disgrace,  his  marriage  had  proved  a  ghastly 
failure,  and  the  least  he  could  do  was  to  cover  it  up, 
together  with  his  own  life,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
31 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

world.  Gradually  he  had  developed  a  strong  sense 
of  social  and  moral  obligation  that  had  made  him 
hate  himself  when  he  remembered  the  advantages 
to  which  he  had  been  born.  Of  what  use  had  he 
been  with  his  dissipated  habits,  he  thought  bit- 
terly, or  could  he  be  now  that  he  saw  the  folly  of 
them,  with  his  health  permanently  ruined,  his  wife 
vulgar  and  often  drunken?  If  birth  or  accident  had 
given  such  people  the  right  to  be  counted  as  aris- 
tocracy, then,  by  every  law  of  Heaven,  and  for  the 
sake  of  those  things  that  make  for  the  salvation 
of  the  race,  they  ought  to  be  stamped  out. 

The  letter  came  at  breakfast-time.  Mr.  Vincent 
was  still  thinking  it  over  when  Hannah  pushed 
back  her  chair  with  a  grating  noise  along  the  tiled 
floor,  and  said  in  a  rasping  voice: 

"I  shall  be  driving  to  Liphook  this  afternoon 
if  anything  is  wanted." 

He  hesitated  on  hi  s  way  to  the  best  parlor.  ' '  You 
might  call  at  the  post-office  and  ask  when  the 
Australian  mail  goes,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Vincent  and  Margaret  looked  after  him; 
then,  as  was  their  custom,  they  gathered  up  the 
breakfast  things  and  carried  them  to  the  kitchen. 
Hannah  was  there  already,  searching  round  the 
shelves  and  cupboards  as  if  she  expected  to  come 
upon  a  hidden  crime. 

"I've  no  time  to  iron  those  muslins  to-day," 
she  said;  "you  had  better  do  them,  Margaret. 
32 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

I  never  see  why  you  shouldn't  help  with  things. 
Mother  and  I  have  enough  to  do." 

"But  of  course  I  will;  and  I  like  ironing,  espe- 
cially in  cold  weather." 

"There  isn't  a  curtain  fit  to  put  to  a  window, 
and  my  hands  are  full  enough/'  Hannah  went  on, 
as  if  she  had  not  heard.  "Towsey  will  put  down 
the  irons.  Till  they  are  hot,  perhaps  you  had 
better  run  out  a  bit/'  she  added,  impatiently;  "  you 
always  make  so  much  of  the  air.  For  my  part, 
I  find  it  better  to  look  after  one's  work  than  after 
one's  health;  one  brings  the  other  is  what  I  think." 

Mrs.  Vincent  had  gone  slowly  towards  the  best 
parlor.  She  opened  the  door  and  looked  in.  "  Shall 
I  come  to  you  for  a  minute,  father?"  she  asked  him. 
Since  Margaret's  birth  she  had  generally  called 
him  "father";  his  Christian  name  had  never 
come  very  easily  to  her. 

"If  you  like,"  he  answered,  without  looking  up 
from  his  papers. 

"I  thought  you  were  worried  a  bit  with  your 
letter."  She  stood  behind  him  and  touched  his 
shoulder.  Time  had  accentuated  the  difference 
in  years  between  them,  and  the  caress  had  some- 
thing maternal  in  it. 

"I  meant  to  talk  to  you  about  it  presently," 
he  said,  and  turned  reluctantly  towards  her.  "It 
is  from  my  brother  in  Australia." 

"Is  he  in  any  trouble?" 
3  33 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Yes,  he's  in  trouble,  I  suppose." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  spoke, 
and  he  loved  her  for  the  firmness  in  her  voice. 
"  If  it's  money,  we  can  help  him.  There's  a  good 
bit  saved  from  the  farm  these  last  years.  I  had 
no  idea  milk  was  going  to  pay  so  well." 

"It  isn't  money.  He  is  ill,  and  not  likely  to  be 
better."  He  stopped,  and  then  went  on  quickly: 
"He  made  a  foolish  marriage  before  he  left  Eng- 
land; but  I  don't  know  that  there  is  any  use  in 
our  discussing  that."  It  seemed  as  if  he  were 
closing  an  open  book. 

"Has  he  no  children  to  look  after  him?" 

"No." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  she  were  trying 
to  face  something  that  had  to  be  done,  and  nerving 
herself  to  speak.  "  It  isn't  for  me  to  know  what's 
best.  I  never  knew  any  of  your  people,  or  saw 
any  one  belonging  to  you — " 

"That's  true,"  he  answered,  awkwardly. 

" — Every  one  has  a  right  to  his  own  history, 
and  I  don't  hold  with  giving  it  out  just  for  the 
sake  of  talking.  Many  lives  have  been  upset  by 
things  there  was  no  need  to  tell—"  She  stopped 
again,  and  then  went  on  bravely.  "But  what  I 
am  coming  to  is  that  if  your  brother  is  ill  and  has 
nobody  but  his  wife,  who  isn't  any  good,  you  might 
like  to  go  out  to  him?" 

"To  go  out  to  him!"  The  thought  made  his 
34 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

heart  leap.  The  quiet  years  had  ranged  them- 
selves round  him  lately  like  the  walls  of  a  prison 
— a  friendly  prison,  in  which  he  was  well  content — 
but  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  suddenly  come  in  sight 
of  a  door-way  through  which  he  might  go  outwards 
for  a  little  while  and  come  back  when  he  had  seen 
once  more  the  unforgotten  tracks. 

"It  might  comfort  him/'  she  went  on  without 
flinching.  "And  you  wouldn't  be  more  than  a 
year  gone,  I  expect.  It  must  be  terribly  dull  for 
you  here  sometimes.  I've  often  thought  how  good 
you've  been." 

He  put  his  hand  tenderly  on  her  arm  while  he 
answered,  "All  the  goodness  has  been  yours." 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  the  window  lest  he  should 
see  the  happiness  in  them,  for  she  had  always 
been  half  ashamed  of  loving  him  as  she  did — a 
staid  woman  of  middle  age,  with  homely  matters 
to  concern  her.  "I  don't  see  that  I  have  done 
anything  out  of  the  way,"  she  said. 

"Did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  you  have  not 
seen  any  one  belonging  to  me,  and  that  really 
you  know  nothing  about  me?  I  was  a  stranger 
when  I  came,  and  you  took  me  in." 

"One  knows  a  good  deal  without  being  told. 
I've  always  felt  that  your  family  was  what  it  should 
be;  and  there's  been  all  your  life  here  to  judge  you 

by/' 

He  looked  at  her  and  felt  like  an  impostor.     He 
35 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

knew  that  the  fact  of  his  father  having  been  a 
lord,  or  his  brother  being  one  now,  would  not  uplift 
her  as  it  would  a  vulgar  woman.  On  the  contrary, 
it  would  probably  be  an  embarrassment  to  her, 
and  a  reason  for  being  silent  regarding  them, 
since  she  would  think  it  unlikely  that  people  who 
were  her  superiors  in  education  and  knowledge 
of  the  world  would  desire  any  kinship  with  her. 
On  her  own  side,  too,  there  was  a  certain  pride  of 
race,  of  the  simple  life  that  she  and  generations 
of  her  people  before  her  had  lived — that  and  no 
other.  Strangers  might  come  into  it,  might  be 
welcomed,  served,  and  cared  for,  even  loved;  but 
she  herself  did  not  want  to  go  beyond  its  boundaries, 
and  though  she  treated  all  people  with  deference, 
it  was  deference  given  to  their  strangerhood  and 
bearing,  and  to  the  quality  of  their  manners,  rather 
than  to  their  social  standing.  Her  husband  knew 
it  and  respected  her  for  it,  and  felt  ashamed  to 
remember  that  his  father  had  been  a  spendthrift 
and  a  company  promoter,  and  that  his  brother  had 
made  a  hideous  marriage.  People  who  did  these 
things  were  plentiful  enough  in  London,  but  they 
were  unknown  at  Chidhurst.  All  that  she  definitely 
knew  about  him  was  that  he  had  been  at  Oxford 
— at  college,  as  she  always  put  it — and  afterwards 
that  he  had  been  in  the  Church  and  left  it  on  account 
of  scruples ;  but  concerning  the  scruples,  and  what 
they  meant  precisely,  she  was  always  vague.  If 
36 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

she  had  been  asked  to  describe  her  husband's 
character  she  would  probably  have  said,  as  if  it 
were  a  paradox,  that  he  was  a  good  man,  though 
he  didn't  go  to  church  on  Sundays. 

They  had  stood  silently  together  for  a  minute, 
busy  with  their  own  thoughts,  then  he  spoke. 
"I  fear  Hannah  doesn't  think  much  of  my  life/' 
he  said. 

"She  means  well,  but  she's  been  brought  up 
strict.  James's  people  were  always  strict,  and 
he  was,  too,  though  he  reproached  himself  at  the 
end  for  not  being  strict  enough.  That's  why  I 
feel  I  ought  to  give  in  to  her  a  bit,  and  let  her  do 
what  she  thinks  is  right,  when  it  doesn't  clash 
with  you.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  married 
some  day;  Mr.  Garratt's  written  saying  he'll  be 
at  Chidhurst  soon,  and  he'd  like  to  pay  his  respects 
to  me,  having  known  James's  people  so  many 
years." 

Mr.  Vincent  was  amused.  "  Oh,  well,  if  Hannah's 
going  to  have  a  young  man  about  the  place,  I'd 
better  get  out  of  the  way,"  he  said.  "I'll  write  to 
Cyril  by  the  next  post  and  tell  him  of  your  sug- 
gestion." 


MARGARET    YINCENT 


OTHER  letters  followed  that  first  one  from  Aus- 
tralia. Lord  Eastleigh  had  caught  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  Gerald's  visit.  But  he  carefully  faced 
the  probable  course  of  his  illness.  The  chances 
were  that  he  might  go  on  for  some  time  longer,  and 
he  thought  it  would  be  best  for  his  brother  to  come 
out  when  the  end  was  getting  near.  Gradually  they 
had  learned  all  there  was  to  know  of  each  other, 
and  in  middle  life  and  far  apart  there  had  grown 
up  between  them  an  affection  of  which  their  youth 
had  shown  but  little  promise.  Cyril  Vincent  had 
done  some  work  in  Australia — it  was  the  only 
thing  for  which  he  respected  himself.  Lately  he 
had  even  saved  some  thousands,  and,  after  provid- 
ing for  his  wife,  he  meant  to  leave  them  to  Gerald. 
For  scrupulous  Churchman  as  Cyril  had  remained, 
even  through  all  his  excesses  and  mistakes,  he 
recognized  the  courage  with  which  his  brother 
had  stood  by  what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth; 
and  now,  when  disease  had  seized  him  on  the  lonely 
Australian  station,  the  only  happiness  left  him  was 
the  thought  that  he  might  see  again  the  one  being 
who  had  not  disgraced  the  family. 
38 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

The  months  went  by  without  alarms  till  Margaret 
was  eighteen.  It  was  mid-spring  at  Woodside 
Farm ;  the  early  flowers  were  up  in  the  Dutch  gar- 
den, the  first  green  was  on  the  trees,  the  sowers  were 
busy  in  the  fields,  and  all  the  earth  smelled  sweet. 
In  the  house  spring  cleaning  was  rife;  it  told, 
together  with  the  non-coming  of  Mr.  Garratt,  on 
Hannah's  temper,  and  Hannah's  temper  told  on 
the  rest  of  the  family. 

"I  don't  think  he  has  behaved  well/'  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent said  to  her  husband.  "A  man  has  no  right 
to  send  a  letter  saying  he  hopes  to  get  over  soon 
and  pay  his  respects  to  her  mother,  and  then  not 
be  as  good  as  his  word.  It  isn't  even  as  if  he  hadn't 
sent  her  a  card  at  Christmas,  showing  he  still 
thought  of  her.  You  see,  Hannah's  getting  on, 
and  she  isn't  satisfied  at  holding  herself  over  for 
a  chance."  What  else  Hannah  could  possibly  do 
she  didn't  explain. 

Mr.  Vincent  shrewdly  suspected  that  Mr.  Gar- 
ratt's  courage  had  failed  him,  or  perhaps  that  he 
regarded  matrimony  as  a  sober  investment  to  be 
made  in  middle  age  rather  than  as  an  exhilaration 
for  youth,  and  so  was  just  keeping  an  eye  open 
without  committing  himself.  But  whatever  the 
reason,  Mr.  Garratt  had  not  yet  appeared,  and 
the  effects  were  obvious.  Hannah  brushed  her 
hair  back  more  tightly  than  formerly,  her  move- 
ments became  jerky,  a  little  pink  settled  itself  at 
39 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

the  tip  of  her  nose,  and  her  tongue  took  a  freer 
range. 

The  hours  were  earlier  at  Woodside  Farm  as 
the  spring  advanced.  By  nine  o'clock  Mr.  Vincent 
had  gone  to  his  study,  and  Hannah  was  busy  in 
the  dairy  or  out  among  the  chickens.  Then  it  was 
that  Mrs.  Vincent  and  Margaret  allowed  themselves 
the  luxury  of  a  little  foolish  talk  together  in  the 
living-place.  It  was  only  possible  when  Hannah 
was  not  about,  for  she  had  no  patience  with  a  great 
girl,  who  might  be  making  better  use  of  her  time, 
sitting  on  the  arm  of  a  chair.  So  Mrs.  Vincent 
and  Margaret  stole  their  little  interviews  together 
with  the  happy  craftiness  of  lovers. 

The  postman  came  into  the  porch  one  morning 
while  they  were  talking.  Mrs.  Vincent  always  lis- 
tened for  him  now,  knowing  well  that  one  day  he 
would  bring  the  message  she  dreaded.  There  were 
two  letters  for  her  husband,  and  her  heart  stood 
still  when  she  saw  that  one  was  from  Australia. 
But  she  recovered  in  a  moment;  after  all,  there 
had  been  many  letters  now,  and  this  might  be  only 
one  added  to  the  number.  The  strange  thing  was 
that  she  never  asked  a  question.  When  he  had  to 
go  he  would  tell  her,  she  thought;  what  was  the 
use  of  worrying  him?  The  other  letter  was  an 
English  one — a  woman's  handwriting  in  violet  ink 
on  pale-gray  paper.  She  looked  at  it  curiously, 
and  felt  that  this,  too,  was  connected  with  his  his- 
40 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

tory — that  part  of  his  history  of  which  she  knew 
nothing. 

"  You  can  take  them  to  him,  Margaret/'  she  said, 
and  sat  down  again. 

"Father  started  when  he  saw  the  one  directed 
with  violet  ink,"  Margaret  told  her  when  she  re- 
turned. 

Mrs.  Vincent  looked  at  her  daughter  wonderingly, 
and  tried  to  divert  her  own  thoughts.  "I  can't 
believe  you  are  growing  up,"  she  said;  "  wesha'n't 
be  able  to  keep  you  much  longer." 

Margaret  lifted  the  hair  from  her  mother's  fore- 
head and  kissed  beneath  it — soft  hair,  with  a  crin- 
kle in  it  that  had  of  late  grown  gray.  "  What  is 
going  to  happen  to  me?"  she  asked,  and  thought 
of  the  blue  distance  on  the  Surrey  hills.  It  was 
beginning  to  attract  her. 

"I'd  give  the  world  to  know.  I  can't  bear  the 
idea  of  your  going  away  from  the  farm." 

"  But  if  I  go  I  shall  return ;  a  bird  always  comes 
back  to  its  nest,  and  I  shall  come  back  to  your  arms. 
Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret?"  she  whispered.  Her 
mother  nodded  with  a  little  smile  on  her  lips,  and 
tried  to  be  interested ;  but  all  the  time  she  knew  that 
behind  the  shut  door  of  the  best  parlor  something 
was  going  on  that  might  change  the  whole  current 
of  their  lives.  "Father  doesn't  want  to  sit  so 
much  in-doors  as  he  has  done,"  Margaret  contin- 
ued ;  "  so  he  means  to  buy  a  tent,  a  little  square  one, 


MARGARET    Y I N  C  E  N  t 

open  in  front,  with  room  for  a  writing-table  and  two 
easy-chairs,  and  a  little  sofa  made  of  basket-work, 
you  know.  It's  to  be  put  up  at  the  edge  of  the 
field,  and  when  it's  fine  he  will  sit  there  and  work, 
and  sometimes  we  are  going  to  invite  you  to  tea — " 

"My  word!  what  will  Hannah  say?" 

"Oh,  she'll  make  a  fuss,  but  it  won't  matter, 
for  father's  father.  We  shall  have  a  glorious 
summer,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh  of  content,  "and 
I  am  so  glad  it's  coming.  I  don't  believe  Hannah's 
heaven  will  be  half  so  good  as  this  world  is  in 
summer-time,  when  everything  is  green  and  a 
dear  mother  loves  you." 

"It  will  be  your  heaven,  too,  Margey,  dear," 
Mrs.  Vincent  said.  "  I  don't  like  you  to  talk  so — " 

"Then  I  won't,"  Margaret  answered,  impulsive- 
ly. "  I  won't  do  anything  you  don't  like.  Here  is 
father." 

"  He  has  come  to  tell  us  something,"  Mrs.  Vincent 
said.  She  started  from  her  chair  and  looked  at 
him,  and  then  for  a  moment  at  the  green  world 
beyond  the  porch,  as  if  she  felt  that  it  would  give 
her  strength.  But  his  news  was  not  what  she 
had  expected. 

"I'm  going  to  London  on  Monday  morning," 
he  said,  "  and  should  like  to  take  Margaret  with 
me.  Can  she  go?" 

"How  long  is  it  to  be  for?"  Mrs.  Vincent  asked, 
while  Margaret  stood  breathless,  seeing  in  imag- 
42 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

ination  a  panorama  of  great  cities  pass  before  her 
eyes. 

"Only  for  a  day  and  a  night." 

"A  night,  too?"  Margaret  exclaimed;  for  on 
the  occasional  visits  her  father  had  paid  to  London 
he  had  gone  and  returned  on  the  same  day.  "It 
sounds  wonderful." 

He  thought  out  his  words  before  speaking,  as 
if  in  his  own  mind  he  saw  the  outcome  of  things 
that  were  going  to  happen.  "All  the  same/' 
he  said,  "you  will  probably  be  glad  to  come  back." 

"Yes,  father,  yes,"  she  exclaimed,  joyfully; 
"  but  then  I  shall  know,  I  shall  have  seen  and  re- 
member it  all.  Dear  mother!"  and  she  turned 
to  her  again,  hungry  for  her  sympathy. 

Mrs.  Vincent  always  understood,  and  she  put 
her  arm  round  Margaret,  while  she  asked  her 
husband,  "  Where  will  you  stay  if  you  don't  come 
back  till  the  next  day,  and  will  Margaret's  things 
be  good  enough?" 

"  We  shall  stay — oh,  at  the  Langham,  I  suppose. 
Of  course  they  will  be  good  enough." 

He  went  back  to  his  papers  and  took  up  the 
two  letters  again.  The  one  from  his  brother  was 
merely  a  reiteration  of  what  he  had  said  before. 
The  important  part  in  it  was  that  which  concerned 
his  health.  Lately  there  had  been  disturbing 
threats;  it  was  possible  that  symptoms  might 
develop  which  would  hurry  the  inevitable.  It 
43 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

was  to  take  a  specialist's  opinion,  so  far  as  might 
be  gathered  from  a  letter,  to  see  his  lawyers,  and 
to  arrange  for  a  probable  voyage  in  the  near  future 
that  Mr.  Vincent  was  going  to  London.  But  it 
was  the  other  letter  that  he  lingered  over,  the  one 
written  on  gray  paper  with  violet  ink.  Long  ago 
that  handwriting  had  greeted  him  every  morning. 
It  had  been  a  symbol  of  happiness,  of  all  the  world 
to  him.  He  read  the  letter  again : 

"  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  from  me  after  all  these 
years ;  but  I  heard  from  Cyril  lately ;  he  gave  me  your  ad- 
dress, and  I  feel  that  I  must  write  to  you.  He  told  me 
of  your  marriage,  and  that  you  have  a  daughter.  I 
knew  nothing  about  you  before,  except  what  I  gathered 
from  your  articles  in  the  Fortnightly.  Do  you  never 
come  to  London?  If  you  do,  come  and  see  me ;  we  will 
avoid  all  reference  to  painful  by-gones  and  meet  as  old 
friends.  I  was  near  you  last  summer.  I  drove  over 
with  my  girl  and  Tom  Carringford  (you  remember  his 
father)  to  look  at  a  house  we  thought  of  taking.  If  I 
had  known — 

"  Let  me  hear  from  you.  I  want  to  be  told  that  I  am 
forgiven  for  all  the  trouble  I  caused  you,  and  that  you 
will  one  day  come  and  shake  my  hand.  Perhaps  'you 
will  bring  your  child  to  see  me. 

"  Yours  always, 

"  HILDA  LAKEMAN." 

Gerald  Vincent  sat  and  thought  of  the  years 
ago  and  of  a  ball— it  seemed  a  strange  thing  for 
44 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

him  to  remember  a  ball — and  a  long,  maddening 
waltz;  he  could  hear  the  crash  of  the  "Soldaten 
Lieder  "  now,  the  long-drawn-out  end,  and  the  hur- 
rying to  the  cool  air.  The  girl  on  his  arm  wore 
a  black  dress — she  was  in  mourning  for  her  sister, 
he  remembered — and  some  lilies  were  at  her  waist. 
The  scent  of  them  came  back  to  him  through  all 
the  years.  He  saw  the  people  passing  in  the  dim 
light;  they  had  drawn  back — he  and  she — so  as 
not  to  be  seen ;  he  heard  the  sound  of  laughter,  the 
buzz  of  voices,  the  uneasy  beginning  of  the  next 
dance.  He  remembered  her  perfect  self-possession, 
and  his  own  awkwardness,  that  had  made  him  let 
the  opportunity  to  speak  slip  by ;  but  it  had  seemed 
to  him  that  words  were  unnecessary.  Looking 
back,  he  felt  that  she  had  been  interested  in  the 
hour  rather  than  sharing  it,  and  he  wondered, 
with  a  little  sorry  amusement  at  the  remembrance 
of  her  manner,  how  much  or  how  little  she  had 
really  felt.  He  thought  of  the  summer  that  follow- 
ed, of  days  on  the  river  in  late  July,  when  the 
London  season  was  in  its  last  rushing  days,  the 
sound  of  oars,  the  trailing  of  the  willows  at  the 
water's  edge,  the  visits  to  house-boats,  the  merry 
little  luncheon  -  party  on  the  point  at  Cookham. 
Mrs.  Berwick  had  been  the  discreetest  of  chaperons, 
and  when  they  had  drunk  their  coffee — vile  coffee 
it  had  been — he  and  Hilda  had  wandered  off  while 
the  others  stayed  drowsily  behind.  How  strange 
45 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

it  was  to  think  of  it  all!  He  could  feel  still  her 
arms  clinging  round  his  neck,  and  hear  her  low, 
passionate  whisper — "  Yes,  yes,  I  love  you — I  love 
you — I  love  you!"  Words  had  never  come  easily 
to  him,  and  he  had  been  ashamed  of  his  dumbness 
when  she  could  find  them.  Remembering  them 
now,  her  tones  rang  false.  He  thought  of  his  ordi- 
nation, and  the  happy  winter  when  gradually  he 
had  put  aside  the  foolish  dissipations,  and  work  and 
love  made  up  his  life;  of  the  curacy  he  held  for  a 
little  while.  Hilda  had  been  full  of  some  scheme; 
he  understood  it  dimly  when  he  went  to  the  bishop's 
palace  and  she  had  whispered — it  was  the  first 
sign  of  what  was  coming — "Who  knows  but  that 
some  day  we  shall  be  installed  here,  you  and  I?" 
The  bishop  gave  him  a  living  later,  and  she  cried, 
triumphantly:  "I  made  father  do  it.  It's  the 
first  step.  I  shall  never  be  satisfied  till  you  are 
on  the  top  one."  The  speech  worried  him,  grated 
on  him  all  through  the  long  first  evening  by  his 
vicarage  fire,  though  he  tried  to  forget  it.  He  read 
her  letter  the  next  morning  almost  desperately; 
luckily  it  had  been  a  simple,  •  affectionate  one, 
and  he  thanked  God  for  it,  and  prayed  that  all 
her  desire  might  be,  as  his  was,  in  the  doing  of 
the  work  before  them,  in  the  good  they  might 
bring  to  others,  and  not  in  the  reward  they  would 
personally  reap  from  it.  There  had  been  a  happy 
time  after  that,  just  as  if  he  had  been  heard.  He 
46 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

remembered  his  simple  faith  in  her,  his  peace 
and  security  in  those  days,  with  wonder.  At  the 
end  of  the  summer  he  had  not  wanted  to  leave  his 
parish  so  soon  after  going  to  it,  so  he  stayed  on 
through  August  and  September  while  Hilda  went 
with  her  people  to  the  Engadine.  A  man  came 
down  to  stay  with  him — a  queer  chap,  Orliter,  of 
All  Souls,  professor  of  philosophy  now  at  a  Scotch 
university.  Orliter  brought  a  cartload  of  books 
with  him;  he  read  them  all  day  and  smoked,  and 
Gerald  did  the  same.  Then  followed  talks  that 
grew  more  and  more  eager ;  often  enough  the  night 
passed  and  daylight  came  while  they  were  still 
arguing — nights  that  were  symbolical  of  the  dark- 
ness he  walked  through,  and  then  the  slow  dawn 
of  what  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  truth. 

It  wanted  courage  to  do  the  rest,  but  he  had  done 
it.  There  had  been  the  difficult  interview  with 
the  bishop,  and  the  long,  miserable  one  with  Hilda, 
who  had  treated  his  new  views  as  though  they 
could  be  thrown  aside  as  easily  as  a  coat  could  be 
taken  off.  She  had  implored  him  to  remember 
that  they  meant  the  blighting  of  his  career,  social 
ruin,  the  desertion  of  his  friends,  the  breaking  of 
her  heart.  It  would  be  impossible,  she  had  ex- 
plained to  him,  to  marry  a  man  her  friends  would 
not  receive — a  man  without  position  or  prospects 
or  money,  with  only  talents  which  he  was  evidently 
going  to  apply  in  a  wrong  direction,  and  opinions 
47 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

that  would  create  a  little  desert  round  him.  He  had 
looked  at  her  aghast.  To  him  truth  was  the  first 
condition  of  life  and  honor ;  to  her  it  was  of  no  con- 
sequence if  it  spelled  inexpediency.  Her  attitude 
resulted  in  his  writing  some  articles  that  made 
his  position  worse  in  a  worldly  sense;  but  he  loved 
her  all  the  time,  his  infatuation  even  became  greater 
as  he  saw  the  impossibility  of  sympathy  or  agree- 
ment between  them.  But  he  was  too  strong  a 
man  to  let  passion  master  him;  besides,  it  seemed 
as  if  all  the  time,  afar  off,  Truth  stood  with  the  clear 
eyes  that  in  later  years  had  been  his  wife's  attrac- 
tion to  him,  and,  cool,  calm,  and  unflinching  drew 
him  to  her — away  from  the  woman  who  protested 
overmuch,  from  the  Church  that  pointed  upward 
to  an  empty  sky,  from  all  the  penalties  and  rewards 
of  religion.  Whether  his  conclusions  are  right  or 
wrong,  a  man  can  but  listen  to  the  dictates  of  his 
soul  and  conscience.  And  so  Gerald  Vincent 
turned  his  back  on  all  that  he  had  believed  and 
loved,  but  remained  an  honest  man.  While  he 
was  in  Italy,  squarely  facing  the  ruin  of  his  life, 
he  heard  of  Hilda's  marriage.  There  had  been 
a  quarter  of  a  column  about  it  in  the  daily  papers. 
He  read  it  a  little  grimly.  A  few  years  later  he 
heard  of  her  husband's  death,  but  there  had  been 
no  sign  of  her  in  his  own  life  till  the  letter  came  that 
morning.  He  read  it  again,  then  locked  it  away 
in  a  desk. 

48 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

He  heard  his  wife's  footsteps  pass  the  door. 
He  rose  and  looked  out.  She  was  standing  in 
the  porch  with  her  back  to  him  and  her  face  towards 
the  garden,  for  she  and  Nature  were  so  near  akin 
that  on  grave  and  silent  days  they  seemed  to  need 
each  other's  greetings.  He  stood  beside  her,  and 
looked  silently  down  at  her  face  with  a  little  sense 
of  thankfulness,  of  gratitude,  for  all  the  peaceful 
years  he  owed  her,  and  he  saw  with  a  pang  the 
deep  lines  on  her  face  and  the  gray  ness  of  her  hair, 
as  Margaret  had  done  only  an  hour  before. 

"Why,  father,"  she  said,  with  a  little  smile, 
"what  is  it?"  Then,  with  sudden  dread,  she 
asked,  "Is  he  worse?  Does  he  want  you  yet?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  won't  be  long,"  he  answered; 
"but  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  better  when  we 
come  from  town." 

Hannah  grumbled,  of  course,  when  she  heard 
of  the  journey.  Then,  grumbling  being  useless, 
she  busied  herself  in  seeing  that  Mr.  Vincent's 
portmanteau  was  dusted  out,  and  that  the  key, 
which  was  tied  to  one  of  the  handles  by  a  bit  of 
string,  turned  properly  in  the  lock.  And  a  strange 
old  bag,  made  of  brown  canvas  and  lined  with 
stuff  that  looked  like  bed -ticking,  was  found  to 
carry  the  few  things  that  Margaret  was  to  take.  It 
was  the  one  that  Hannah  herself  often  used  when 
she  went  to  Petersfield,  and  therefore  obviously 
good  enough  for  any  other  member  of  the  house- 
4  49 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

hold.  But  Mr.  Vincent  looked  at  it  with  surprise ; 
he  remembered  in  his  youth  seeing  the  under- 
gardener's  son  set  off  for  Liverpool,  and  the  bag 
he  carried  was  just  like  this  one. 

"  I  think  we  must  buy  something  else  for  you  in 
London,  Margey,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  you'll  do  a  great  deal  when 
you  get  there,"  Hannah  struck  in,  sharply.  "It's 
to  be  hoped  you'll  take  her  to  see  Westminster 
Abbey  and  St.  Paul's,  to  say  nothing  of  the  City 
Temple  and  the  Tabernacle  and  Exeter  Hall.  It 
would  be  as  well  for  her  to  see  that,  in  one  way  or 
another,  people  have  thought  a  good  deal  of  re- 
ligion, though  you  and  others  like  you  put  your- 
selves above  it."  She  waited,  but  Mr.  Vincent 
showed  no  sign  of  having  heard  her.  "I'm  afraid 
that  one  day  you'll  find  you  have  made  a  mistake," 
she  went  on.  He  pulled  out  a  little  pouch  and 
rolled  up  a  cigarette. 

"Are  you  going  to  drive  us  to  the  station  your- 
self?" he  asked. 

"I  suppose  I'd  better,"  she  answered.  "I  don't 
know  what's  come  to  that  boy  lately.  If  I  send 
him  over  to  Haslemere  he  never  knows  when  to 
get  back." 

So  the  cart  came  round  on  Monday  morning. 

Mr.  Vincent  and  Hannah  got  up  in  front,  and 

Margaret  behind,  with  the  portmanteau  and  the 

canvas  bag  on  either  side  of  her.     Mrs.  Vincent 

50 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

stood  waving  her  handkerchief  till  they  were  out 
of  sight,  then  went  with  a  sigh  to  the  best  parlor, 
thinking  it  would  be  as  well  to  take  advantage  of 
her  husband's  absence  and  give  it  an  extra  tidying. 

The  postman  came  a  little  later.  He  trudged 
round  to  the  back  door,  where  he  sat  down  on  a 
four -legged  stool  that  the  boy  had  painted  gray 
only  last  week,  and  prepared  for  a  little  talk  with 
Towsey. 

"Have  you  heard  that  the  house  on  the  hill  is 
let?"  he  was  saying.  "Some  one  from  London 
has  taken  it  for  the  whole  summer." 

"What  have  you  brought,  postman?"  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent asked.  He  handed  her  a  letter  for  Hannah. 
A  smile  came  to  her  lips  when  she  saw  it.  "  It's 
the  hand  that  directed  the  Christmas  card,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "And  it's  my  belief  that  Mr. 
Garratt's  coming  at  last." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


VI 


MARGARET  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  when 
they  reached  London.  The  drive  from  Waterloo 
to  the  Langham — the  bridge,  the  stream  of  people, 
the  shops — were  all  bewildering.  She  could  have 
sung  for  joy  as  they  drove  along  in  the  hansom. 

"It  appears  to  please  you/'  Mr.  Vincent  said, 
with  a  little  smile. 

"It  does!  It  does!"  she  exclaimed.  "Only  I 
should  like  to  walk  along  the  pavements — " 

"You  shall  presently." 

"And  look  into  all  the  windows — " 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  stand  that." 

"  I  wish  we  had  to  buy  something,  then  we  should 
go  into  a  shop." 

"We  will,"  he  said,  and  presently  put  his  hand 
through  the  little  door  at  the  top  of  the  hansom, 
which  was  in  itself  an  excitement  to  her.  They 
stopped  at  a  trunk  shop. 

"But,  father—"    She  was  breathless. 

"We  must  get  you  a  Gladstone  bag,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

She  tripped  into  the  shop  after  him.  It  was 
like  entering  the  ante-room  of  an  enchanted  land, 
52 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

for  did  not  great  travellers  come  here  before  they 
started  for  the  North  Pole  or  the  South,  to  fight 
battles,  or  to  go  on  strange  missions  to  foreign 
courts?  No  one  guesses  the  happy  extravagance 
of  a  young  girl's  heart  on  all  the  first  times  in  her 
life — the  dreams  that  beset  her,  the  pictures  she 
sees,  the  strange  songs  that  ring  in  her  ears. 

"That's  a  great  improvement,"  Mr.  Vincent  said 
when  they  re-entered  the  cab  and  a  good,  service- 
able, tan-colored  Gladstone  had  been  safely  put  on 
the  top.  "  We  will  throw  the  other  away  when  you 
have  taken  out  your  things." 

"Oh  no,  father — it's  Hannah's." 

"True.  She  can  take  it  away  as  part  of  her 
trousseau."  Mr.  Vincent  laughed  at  his  own 
little  joke.  He  looked  young,  he  was  almost 
gay,  as  if  he,  too,  felt  that  they  had  come  out  on 
a  wonderful  journey  in  this  simple  one  to  town. 
But  he  had  suddenly  discovered  a  new  pleasure  in 
life ;  for  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  Margaret 
was  so  unsophisticated,  or  that  there  could  be  so 
much  that  was  new  to  her. 

Everything  was  a  joy,  even  the  little  sitting- 
room  at  the  Langham.  This,  she  thought,  was 
what  rooms  in  London  looked  like — rooms  in  hotels, 
at  any  rate.  But  though  a  new  experience  came 
upon  her  every  moment,  all  the  time  at  the  back  of 
her  head  she  saw  a  white  road  with  clumps  of 
heather  and  gorse  beside  it,  and  a  church  on  a 
53 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

hill;  a  mile  farther  there  was  a  duck-pond  and  a 
lane  that  led  to  Woodside  Farm;  already,  even 
through  her  impatience  to  see  more  of  this  wonder- 
ful London,  she  looked  forward  to  the  first  glimpse 
of  her  mother's  face  watching  for  them  on  the 
morrow. 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  here  for 
an  hour  or  two.  I  have  come  to  London  on  busi- 
ness," Mr.  Vincent  said.  "But  I  must  try  and 
show  you  some  sights  presently,  though  I'm  not 
good  at  that  sort  of  thing.  Perhaps  we  might 
go  to  a  theatre  to-night — " 

"Oh!  But  what  would  Hannah  say?"  At  a 
safe  distance  it  was  amusing  to  think  of  Hannah's 
wrath. 

"I  don't  know."  It  amused  him,  too.  "But  it 
shall  be  something  that  won't  hurt  us  very  much. 
I  believe  "  King  John  "  is  going  on  still.  I  will  try 
and  get  places  for  it  while  I  am  out." 

"  Couldn't  I  go  with  you  now — I  mean  about  your 
business?" 

He  considered  for  a  moment.  It  was  one  of  his 
characteristics  that  he  always  thought  out  his 
words  before  answering  even  trivial  questions. 
"  It  would  be  better  not.  I  want  to  arrange  some 
family  matters." 

"But  I  am  family,"  she  pleaded. 

"That's  true."  He  hesitated  again  before  he 
went  on.  "You  know  that  my  brother— he  is 
54 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

your  uncle  Cyril,  of  course — is  ill,  and  I  may  pos- 
sibly go  out  to  him?" 

"Yes,  father,  I  know." 

"  I  want  to  find  out  how  ill  he  is,  if  it  is  possible, 
from  the  account  he  gives  of  himself.  A  specialist 
may  know." 

"You  never  told  me  anything  about  him.  Is 
he  older  than  you?" 

" Of  course.     That  is  why  he  inherited  the  title." 

"Oh!"  She  looked  up  rather  amused.  Chid- 
hurst  folk  had  none  of  the  snobbishness  of  London, 
but  titles  are  picturesque  and  even  romantic  to  a 
young  imagination.  "What  title?" 

"He  is  Lord  Eastleigh,"  Mr.  Vincent  answered, 
reluctantly,  "as  my  father  was  before  him;  but  a 
title  without  property  to  keep  it  up  is  not  a  very 
praiseworthy  possession.  It  generally  suggests 
that  there  has  been  extravagance  or  bad  manage- 
ment, or  something  of  the  sort. "  He  stopped  again, 
and  then  went  on  quickly:  "After  his  marriage 
he  went  to  Australia,  and  we  knew  nothing  of  each 
other  for  years  till  he  wrote  some  months  ago." 

"  Mother  told  me.  Are  you  rich,  father — can  you 
afford  to  go  to  him?" 

"  I  have  two  hundred  a  year  and  a  legacy  of  five 
hundred  pounds — it  came  in  some  time  ago,  and 
will  pay  the  expenses  of  the  journey." 

"  I  see. "  Gradually  she  was  grasping  the  family 
position.  "  It  must  be  dreadful  for  his  wife,  to  be 
55 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

all  that  way  off  alone  with  him,  and  he  going  to 
die." 

He  looked  up  in  surprise.  It  had  not  occurred 
to  him  to  feel  any  sympathy  for  his  brother's  wife. 
He  liked  Margaret  for  thinking  of  her.  "Yes, 
I  suppose  it  is/'  he  said;  "though  I  believe  she 
wasn't  a  very  desirable  person.  I  don't  know 
whether  I'm  wise  to  give  you  these  details.  They 
are  not  necessary  to  our  life  at  Chidhurst." 

"But  I'm  growing  older,"  she  said,  eagerly, 
and  held  out  her  hands  to  him  as  if  she  were  grop- 
ing her  way  through  the  world  with  them.  "I 
want  to  know  things.  Don't  keep  them  from  me." 

He  looked  at  her  in  dismay.  It  was  the  old  cry 
— the  cry  of  his  own  youth.  "I  won't,"  he  said, 
and  kissed  her  forehead. 

She  was  glad  to  be  alone  for  a  little  while,  to 
get  rid  of  the  first  excitement,  the  first  strangeness 
of  the  journey,  and  of  being  at  the  hotel.  She 
looked  out  at  the  hansoms  setting  down  and  driving 
on,  at  all  the  swift  traffic  along  the  roadway,  at 
the  people  on  the  wide  pavement.  She  had  imag- 
ined what  London  would  be  like  from  pictures, 
and  from  Guildford  and  Haslemere,  and  other 
places  where  there  were  shops  and  streets.  It  was 
what  she  had  expected,  and  yet  it  was  different. 
She  felt  herself  so  near  to  the  heart  of  things,  as 
if  the  people  going  to  and  fro  were  the  pulse  of  the 
world;  she  could  almost  hear  the  throb  of  their 
56 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

lives.  She  wanted  to  be  in  the  whirl  of  things,  too, 
to  know  what  it  was  all  like,  to  understand — oh, 
no,  no !  the  farm  was  better,  the  Dutch  garden  and 
the  best  parlor  and  the  mother  who  was  thinking 
of  her.  She  would  sit  down  and  write  to  her  this 
very  minute — it  was  an  excellent  chance  while  she 
was  alone.  On  the  writing-table  in  the  corner 
there  were  paper  and  envelopes,  with  the  name  of 
the  hotel  stamped  on  them.  Her  mother  would 
look  at  it  and  understand  the  strangeness  of  her 
surroundings.  This  was  the  first  time  they  had 
been  separated  at  all;  and  writing  to  her  was  like 
a  door  creaking  on  its  hinges,  suggesting  that  at 
some  unexpected  moment  it  might  open  wide  to 
let  her  through. 

When  the  letter  was  finished  she  took  up  one  of 
the  newspapers  lying  on  the  table.  There  was  a 
war  going  on  somewhere  along  the  Gold  Coast; 
she  read  about  it,  but  she  could  not  grasp  the  de- 
tails. She  looked  at  the  speeches  that  had  been 
made  in  the  House  the  night  before,  and  tried  to  be 
interested  in  them;  but  they  were  difficult.  She 
read  all  the  little  odds  and  ends  of  news,  even  the 
advertisements;  and  these  were  oddly  fascinating. 
There  was  one  that  set  her  thinking.  It  was  of  a 
dramatic  agency  in  the  Strand.  Young  ladies 
could  be  trained  for  the  stage,  it  said,  and  en- 
gagements were  guaranteed.  She  wondered  what 
the  training  was  like,  and  what  sort  of  engagements 
57 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

they  would  be.  Now  that  she  was  actually  going 
to  a  theatre  she  felt  that  she  ought  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  everything;  her  outlook  was  widening 
every  moment;  and  she  would  never  be  quite  the 
same  simple  country  girl  again  who  had  set  out 
from  Chidhurst  that  morning. 

Mr.  Vincent  came  back  at  a  quarter -past  one. 
He  looked  worried,  and  she  was  able  to  imagine 
reasons  for  it  since  their  talk  just  now. 

"Is  the  news  bad?"  she  asked. 

"It  might  be  worse,"  he  answered,  with  a  shrug. 
"There  is  nothing  definite  to  say  just  yet.  We 
must  go  down  and  lunch;  an  old  friend  of  mine 
is  waiting — he  wants  to  see  you."  Her  father 
had  put  on  the  manner  that  was  his  armor — the 
grave  manner  of  few  words  that  made  questions 
impossible.  He  opened  the  door  with  as  much 
courtesy  as  a  stranger  would  have  done,  and  walked 
beside  her  down  the  wide  staircase.  "I  have  se- 
cured a  table,"  he  said  as  they  entered  the  dining- 
room,  forgetting  that  his  remark  would  convey 
nothing  to  her. 

The  table  was  in  an  alcove;  beside  it  a  middle- 
aged  man  was  waiting  for  them.  He  was  tall 
and  dark,  and  well  set-up.  A  short,  well-cut  beard 
and  mustache,  grizzled  like  his  hair,  covered  his 
mouth;  his  eyes  were  brown  and  alert,  though 
time  had  made  them  dim  and  lines  had  gathered 
round  them;  his  face  was  that  of  a  man  who  lived 
58 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

generously,  but  with  deliberation;  his  slow  move- 
ments suggested  tiredness  or  disappointment;  his 
manner  had  a  curious  blending  of  indulgence  and 
refinement. 

"  This  is  Sir  George  Stringer ;  we  were  at  Oxford 
together/'  Mr.  Vincent  said  to  Margaret. 

"I  am  delighted  to  meet  you/'  Sir  George  said; 
"and  it's  very  good  of  your  father  to  put  it  in  that 
way,  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  five  years  my 
junior.  I  stayed  up  after  taking  my  degree." 
Looking  at  him  now,  she  saw  that  he  was  quite 
elderly,  though  in  the  distance  she  had  taken  him 
to  be  almost  young.  "I  had  not  seen  him  for 
more  than  twenty  years,"  he  went  on  after  they 
had  settled  themselves  at  the  table,  "  till  he  walked 
into  my  office  just  now.  I  didn't  even  know  that 
he  was  a  married  man  till  the  other  day,  much 
less  that  he  had  a  daughter." 

"But  he  knew  where  to  find  you?" 

"Of  course  he  did,"  Sir  George  said.  "I  am  a 
permanent  official — a  moss-grown  thing  that  is 
never  kicked  aside  unless  it  clamors,  till  the  allotted 
number  of  years  have  passed  and  the  younger 
generation  comes  knocking  at  the  door." 

"What  do  you  think  he  has  done,  Margey?" 
Mr.  Vincent  asked,  noticing  with  satisfaction  that 
she  was  quite  unembarrassed  by  her  new  sur- 
roundings. The  people  at  the  different  tables  put 
a  pleasant  curiosity  into  her  eyes,  or  provoked 
59 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

a  little  smile;  now  and  then  she  looked  up  at  him 
when  some  strange  dish  or  attention  of  the  waiters 
puzzled  her,  but  she  was  neither  awkward  nor  over- 
elated. 

"What  has  he  done?"  she  asked. 

"  We  saw  that  the  house  on  the  hill  had  been  let 
when  we  passed  this  morning — " 

"  It's  the  most  amazing  thing  that  I  should  have 
hit  upon  it,"  Sir  George  said. 

"  You  have  taken  it!"  she  exclaimed,  and  clasped 
her  hands  with  delight.  It  would  be  like  a  little 
bit  of  London  going  to  Chidhurst,  she  thought, 
and  her  mother  would  like  him,  she  was  sure  of  it, 
this  friend  of  her  father's,  who  would  have  been 
difficult  to  describe,  for,  though  he  was  old — to  her 
young  eyes — he  was  so  agreeable.  And  he  would 
be  some  one  else  for  her  father  to  talk  with;  they 
would  discuss  all  manner  of  things  concerning  the 
world  that  she  was  discovering  to  be  a  wonderful 
place,  though  Chidhurst,  with  its  beauty  and  its 
silence,  held  aloof  from  it — and  she  would  listen 
to  them ;  it  would  be  like  hearing  a  fairy  story  told 
at  intervals.  If  only  her  father  did  not  have  to 
go  to  Australia  —  that  threat  was  beginning  to 
make  itself  distinct,  though  she  tried  to  forget  it. 

"  It's  very  good  of  you  to  be  pleased  at  the  pros- 
pect of  a  grim  old  bachelor  being  near  you,"  Sir 
George  said,  and  looked  at  her  critically.  Her 
beauty  had  been  taking  him  by  surprise.  How 
60 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

lucky  Vincent  was  to  have  her,  he  thought.  He 
remembered  his  own  empty  rooms  in  Mount  Street, 
their  luxury  and  loneliness,  the  precision  with 
which  everything  kept  to  its  place,  their  silence 
and  dulness.  Vincent  had  made  a  mull  of  his 
life,  but  he  had  a  home,  and  a  wife  who,  though 
no  doubt  she  was  homely  enough — mended  his 
socks  and  cooked  his  dinner  herself,  perhaps — 
was  probably  a  handsome  woman,  since  she  was 
the  mother  of  this  beautiful  creature.  In  spite  of 
his  opinions,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
kicked  aside  his  prospects,  Vincent  had  not  done 
so  badly  for  himself  after  all. 

"Did  father  tell  you  that  we  lived  at  Woodside 
Farm?"  Margaret  asked. 

"Of  course  he  did.  I  wish  I  had  known  it  the 
other  day.  By -the -way,  Vincent/'  he  went  on 
to  her  father,  "it  was  young  Carringford  who  told 
me  of  the  house.  You  remember  his  father?  He 
was  President  of  the  Union  just  before  your  time. 
He  died  about  a  year  ago  worth  a  quarter  of  a 
million,  and  left  two  children — this  boy,  who  is 
only  two  or  three  and  twenty  now,  and  a  girl 
who  married  Lord  Arthur  Wanstead.  They  have 
a  hundred  thousand  pounds  each." 

"It  sounds  as  if  it  could  never  be  counted," 
Margaret  said. 

"Only  three  thousand  a  year  if  they  have  the 
luck  to  get  three  per  cent,  for  it,  and  income  tax 
61 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

off  that.  Well,  Master  Tom  has  some  friends  liv- 
ing on  Hindhead — in  red-brick  houses  that  ought 
to  be  blown  up  with  gunpowder,  especially  when 
they  have  weather-cocks  on  their  gables.  Hind- 
head,  as  you  probably  know,  is  celebrated  for  its 
red-brick  houses,  philosophers,  pretty  young  ladies, 
and  afternoon  parties  at  which  games  are  played 
with  astonishing  energy." 

"We  are  miles  and  miles  from  Hindhead," 
Margaret  said,  bewildered.  But  Sir  George  en- 
joyed talking,  and  took  it  for  granted  that  others 
liked  to  listen. 

"Of  course  you  are,"  he  answered,  genially; 
"but  one  fine  day  he  and  the  Lakemans  were 
staying  in  the  neighborhood.  He  rode  over  to 
Chidhurst,  saw  this  house,  and  thought  it  might 
do  for  them,  so  they  all  went  over  to  look  at  it — " 

"She  told  me." 

"Oh,  you  have  heard  from  her?  Mrs.  Lake- 
man,  as  you  probably  know,  is  a  lady  who  does 
not  care  for  quite  so  much  unadulterated  nature 
as  there  is  in  your  neighborhood,  so  the  house 
didn't  suit  her.  The  other  day  Tom  told  me  of  it, 
and  I  took  it  on  the  spot.  When  did  you  see  her 
last?" 

"A  good  many  years  ago."  Mr.  Vincent's 
manner  was  a  shade  curt. 

Sir  George  looked  up  quickly.     "  Why,  of  course, 
I  remember— what  an  idiot  I  am!" 
62 


MARGARET     VINCENT 

"  Not  at  all.  We  are  going  there  this  afternoon. 
Who  was  Lakeman?  I  didn't  know  him." 

"No  one  in  particular;  but  he  was  good-looking 
and  fairly  well  off. "  Sir  George  smiled  to  himself, 
and  took  a  liqueur  with  his  coffee.  "  She  was  a 
fascinating  woman/'  he  added;  "and  has  had  my 
scalp  among  others." 

"  I  think  you  might  go  up-stairs,  Margey.  We'll 
follow  you  presently." 

Sir  George  looked  after  her  as  she  disappeared. 
"She  is  going  to  be  a  beautiful  woman/'  he  said. 
"Rather  a  shame  to  hide  her  on  a  farm  at  Chid- 
hurst,  though,  for  my  part,  I  always  think  that 
the  devil  lives  in  town  and  God  in  the  country." 

Margaret  felt  that  her  father  was  embarrassed 
by  his  sense  of  responsibility  when  he  joined  her 
half  an  hour  later.  "You  ought  to  be  shown 
some  of  the  things  in  London,"  he  said  again. 

"I've  seen  the  hansom  cabs,"  she  said,  "and 
lunched  at  a  little  table  at  the  hotel,  and  everything 
is  a  sight  to  me." 

"  I  suppose  it  is.  Still,  we  might  do  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  at  any  rate.  Hannah  gave  us  leave, 
you  know — and  then  we'll  go  to  Mrs.  Lakeman's." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"Her  father  was  a  bishop,"  Mr.  Vincent  said. 
He  spoke  as  if  the  fact  needed  some  contempla- 
tion, and  to  Margaret  it  did,  since  she  had  never 
63 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

seen  a  bishop  in  her  life.  She  knew  that  he  wore 
lawn  sleeves  and  a  shovel  hat,  and  was  a  great 
man ;  she  had  a  vague  idea  that  he  lived  in  a  cathe- 
dral and  slept  in  his  mitre.  "He  died  a  good 
many  years  ago/'  Mr.  Vincent  continued,  with  a 
jerk  in  his  voice.  "He  gave  me  a  living  when  I 
was  a  young  man;  but  I  resigned  it  after  a  year 
or  two,  and  differences  of  opinion  caused  quar- 
rels and  separations.  Perhaps,"  he  added,  rather 
grimly,  "Hannah  would  have  called  me  a  Papist 
then,  and  think  it  nearly  as  bad  as  being  an  un* 
believer  now." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


VII 

MR.  VINCENT  looked  at  Margaret  two  or  three 
times  as  they  drove  down  to  Chelsea  Embank- 
ment. A  village  dressmaker  had  made  her  frock, 
but  it  set  well  on  her  slim  young  figure,  and  the 
lace  at  her  neck  was  soft  and  real;  it  belonged  to 
her  mother,  who  knew  nothing  of  its  value;  her 
hat  was  perfectly  simple,  a  peasant,  or  a  woman 
of  fashion  might  have  worn  it,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  that  Margaret  would  fall  quite  naturally  into 
place  with  either.  Then  he  thought  of  his  wife  at 
the  farm ;  she  had  lived  so  simple  a  lif e  among  the 
growths  of  the  earth  and  the  changes  of  the  sky 
that  she  was  wholly  untainted  by  the  vulgarities 
of  the  world,  and  such  as  she  was  herself  she  had 
made  her  daughter. 

The  hansom  stopped  before  a  new-looking  red- 
brick house. 

"  George  Stringer  would  say  it  ought  to  be  blown 
up  with  gunpowder,"  Mr.  Vincent  remarked,  and 
Margaret,  turning  to  give  some  trivial  answer,  saw 
that  he  was  white  and  nervous. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  man  servant.  The 
hall  was  panelled;  there  were  rugs  and  pictures 
65 


MARGARET    ^INCEN T 

and  palms  and  old  china  about,  and  her  heart 
beat  quicker,  for  all  this  was  part  of  the  London 
show.  The  drawing-room  was  part  of  it,  too,  with 
its  couches  and  screens,  its  pictures  and  Venetian 
glass  and  countless  things  of  a  sort  that  had  no 
place  at  Woodside  Farm.  It  was  all  still  and  dim, 
too,  almost  mysterious,  and  scented  with  early 
spring  flowers  put  about  in  masses,  or  so  it  seemed 
to  Margaret. 

Some  curtains  separated  a  further  room;  they 
were  drawn  together,  and  against  them,  clutching 
them  with  one  hand,  as  if  she  were  waiting  and  half 
afraid,  a  woman  stood.  She  was  tall,  and  about 
forty-three.  Her  figure  was  still  slight ;  her  black 
dress  trailed  on  the  floor,  and  made  her  look  grace- 
ful; the  white  cuffs  at  her  wrist  were  turned  back, 
and  called  attention  to  the  small  white  hands 
below  them.  She  had  a  quantity  of  dark  hair, 
smoothly  plaited,  and  pinned  closely  to  the  back 
of  her  head.  Her  eyes  were  a  deep  gray,  long 
lashed,  and  curiously  full  of  expression,  that 
apparently  she  was  not  able  to  control.  They 
seemed  to  belong  to  an  inward  being  who  looked 
on  independently  at  things,  and  frequently  thought 
and  felt  differently  from  the  one  that  clothed  it 
and  tried  to  pass  itself  off  as  a  real  personality. 
She  had  never  been  pretty;  but  her  face  arrested 
attention.  The  lines  on  it  suggested  suffering; 
there  was  humor  about  the  mouth,  and  tenderness 
66 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

in  the  deep  tone  of  her  voice.  For  a  time  and  for 
some  people  she  had  a  curious  fascination;  she 
knew  it,  and  liked  to  watch  its  effect.  Her  head 
was  small,  and  she  carried  it  well,  and  the  white- 
ness of  the  little  ruffle  round  her  throat  gave  it  a 
setting  and  made  it  picturesque.  She  looked 
across  quickly  at  Mr.  Vincent.  Then,  as  if  she 
had  gathered  courage,  she  held  out  her  hands  and 
went  forward. 

"Gerald!"  she  exclaimed.  Her  voice  appeared 
to  be  thickened  by  emotion.  She  stopped  before 
him  and  let  her  hands  drop. 

He  took  them  in  his.  "  How  do  you  do,  Hilda?" 
he  said,  prosaically  enough.  "It  is  a  long  time 
since  we  met." 

She  raised  her  eyes ;  they  were  grave  and  pathet- 
ic, but  somewhere  at  the  back  of  them  there  was 
a  glint  of  curiosity.  She  knew  that  he  saw  it, 
and  tried  to  convince  him  that  he  was  mistaken. 

"More  than  twenty  years,"  she  answered.  "I 
never  expected  to  see  you  again." 

"And  now  I  have  brought  this  tall  girl  to  see 
you."  He  put  his  hand  on  his  daughter's  shoul- 
der. 

Mrs.  Lakeman  looked  up  curiously,  almost  rue- 
fully. With  something  like  a  sob  she  whispered, 
"It's  Margaret,  isn't  it?"  and  took  her  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  her.  "I  knew  your  father  be- 
fore your  mother  did,  and  I  have  loved  him  all 
67 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

my  life,"  she  said,  and  looked  at  the  girl's  face 
intently  for  a  moment;  then,  as  if  she  had  had 
enough  of  that  phase,  she  asked  with  a  sudden 
touch  of  cynicism,  "  Did  he  ever  talk  to  you  about 
me — but  I  don't  suppose  he  did?" 

"I  was  never  a  very  talkative  person/'  Mr. 
Vincent  said,  grimly.  She  turned  to  him  with  a 
happy,  humorous  smile.  She  seemed  to  have 
swept  all  emotion  from  her;  she  had  become 
animated  and  even  lively. 

"No,  you  never  were.  You  were  always  as 
silent  and  as  wise  as  a  dear  owl.  I  have  a  child, 
too,"  she  went  on.  "You  must  see  her — my 
Lena.  She  is  all  I  have  in  the  world — a  splendid 
girl  and  a  wonderful  companion." 

"Where  is  she?"  Mr.  Vincent  asked. 

"She  is  in  there,"  nodding  towards  the  cur- 
tains, "in  her  own  sitting-room.  You  shall  go 
to  her,  dear,"  she  said,  quickly  turning  to  Mar- 
garet. "She  knows  all  about  you,  and  is  long- 
ing to  see  you.  Tom  Carringford  is  there,  too 
— he  is  always  there,"  she  added,  significantly. 
"You  remember  old  Tom  Carringford,  Gerald? 
This  is  his  boy — awfully  nice  boy;  I  am  never 
tired  of  him."  She  was  gay  by  this  time,  and 
it  was  obvious  that  good  spirits  were  natural  to 
her.  "I'll  tell  you  who  is  with  them,"  she  went 
on.  "  Dawson  Farley — I  dare  say  Margaret  would 
like  to  see  him.  He  is  a  genius  in  my  opinion 
68 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

— the  only  man  on  the  stage  fit  to  play  a  romantic 
part — and  Louise  Hunstan,  the  American  actress, 
you  know.  She  is  playing  just  now  in  '  The  School 
for  Scandal '  at  the  Shaftesbury — great  fun  to  hear 
her  do  Lady  Teazle  with  a  little  twang  in  her  voice ; 
it  is  an  awfully  pretty  twang,  though.  We  are 
devoted  to  the  theatre,  Lena  and  I. "  She  appeared 
to  be  hurrying  as  much  information  as  possible 
into  her  words,  as  if  she  wanted  to  give  her  listeners 
an  impression  of  her  life. 

"We  are  going  to  the  play  to-night,"  Mr.  Vincent 
said,  but  Mrs.  Lakeman  hardly  heard  him.  Other 
lives  only  interested  her  so  far  as  they  affected 
her  own.  If  the  Vincents  had  been  going  with  her 
she  would  have  taken  any  trouble,  shown  any 
amount  of  excitement;  but  as  it  was,  why  it  was 
nothing  to  her. 

"You  shall  go  to  them,"  she  said  decisively  to 
Margaret,  evidently  carrying  on  her  own  train 
of  thought.  She  went  towards  the  curtains  as 
if  to  pull  them  aside.  "  Tell  them  we  are  coming 
in  ten  minutes,  dear." 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  know  them/'  Margaret  answered, 
appalled  at  being  told  to  rush  in  among  strangers. 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  said,  in 
a  sympathetic  voice.  "I'll  take  you.  No,  no, 
Gerald,"  as  Mr.  Vincent  made  a  step  to  follow 
them;  "we  must  have  a  little  talk  to  ourselves 
after  all  these  years." 

69 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

She  led  Margaret  into  a  second  drawing-room, 
and  beyond  it  into  a  still  smaller  room.  There 
were  pictures,  and  flowers  again — quantities  of 
flowers,  the  air  was  heavy  with  their  scent.  Silk 
draperies  shaded  the  light  that  struggled  through 
the  small-paned  windows,  and  bits  of  color  and 
silver  gleamed  everywhere.  It  was  like  entering 
a  dream,  and  dim  figures  seemed  to  rise  from  it — 
an  indefinite  number  of  them,  it  seemed  to  Margaret, 
though  she  soon  made  out  that  there  were  only 
four.  She  felt  so  strange  as  she  stood  hesitating 
just  inside  the  room,  like  a  little  wayfarer,  who 
knew  only  of  green  fields  and  a  farm-house,  stray- 
ing into  an  enchanted  world,  for  it  was  odd  how 
the  remembrance  of  her  home  never  left  her  through 
all  those  first  hours  in  London,  and  in  her  thoughts 
she  sent  it  constant  messages. 

"Lena,  my  darling,  this  is  Margaret  Vincent. 
Be  kind  to  her,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  said,  in  a  low, 
thrilling  voice.  "You  must  love  her,  for  I  used 
to  love  her  father — I  do  now."  She  turned  to  a 
young  man  who  had  come  towards  them.  "Tom, 
your  father  knew  this  girl's  father,  too.  I  am 
coming  back  with  him  in  a  few  minutes  to  tea. 
This  is  Tom  Carringford,  dear,"  she  said  to  Mar- 
garet. Then,  as  if  she  had  done  enough,  she  went 
back  with  a  look  of  amusement  in  her  eyes  and  a 
gay  little  smile  on  her  lips.  "I  have  got  rid  of 
the  girl,"  she  thought.  "I  wonder  what  that  old 
70 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

idiot  will  have  to  say  for  himself  now  she  is  out  of 
the  way." 

Tom  Carringford  reassured  Margaret  in  a  mo- 
ment. "How  do  you  do?"  he  said,  and  shook 
her  hand.  "Don't  be  afraid  of  us;  it's  all  right. 
My  governor  often  spoke  of  yours,  and  I  have  al- 
ways hoped  I  should  see  him  some  day." 

Before  she  could  answer,  there  stole  towards 
her  a  girl  with  a  thin,  almost  haggard,  face  and 
two  sleepy,  dark  eyes  that  looked  as  if  they  might 
burn  with  every  sort  of  passion.  "I  have  been 
waiting  for  you,"  she  said.  "Mother  has  told 
me  about  your  father.  It  was  splendid  of  him 
to  bring  you."  She  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  and, 
drawing  Margaret  to  a  seat  near  the  window, 
looked  at  her  with  an  anxious  expression  in  her 
great  eyes,  as  if  she  had  been  worn  out  with  watch- 
ing for  her.  "  Stay,  you  don't  know  Mr.  Dawson 
Farley  yet,  do  you?"  She  turned  towards  a  man 
who  had  risen  to  make  room  for  them. 

"Mrs.  Lakeman  told  us  about  him  just  now." 

"I'm  not  as  famous  as  Miss  Lakeman  thinks." 
The  clear  pronunciation  caught  Margaret's  ear, 
and  she  looked  at  him.  He  was  clean-shaven, 
with  a  determined  mouth  and  short,  crisp  hair. 
There  was  something  hard  and  even  cruel  in 
the  face,  but  there  was  fascination  in  it,  too  — 
there  was  fascination  in  all  these  new  people; 
the  magnetism  of  knowledge  of  the  world  per- 
7i 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

haps,  the  world  that  had  only  burst  upon  her  to- 
day. 

"Oh,  but  I  know  nothing,"  she  said,  shyly.  "I 
came  from  Chidhurst  this  morning — for  the  first 
time."  Lena  made  a  little  sympathetic  sound,  and 
put  her  arms  out  as  if  to  protect  her. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  have  never  been  in  Lon- 
don before?"  Mr.  Farley  asked. 

"No,  never." 

"What  a  wonderful  thing!"  The  words  came 
from  a  corner  near  the  fireplace.  Margaret  was 
getting  used  to  the  dimness  now,  and  could  see 
through  it.  A  woman  moved  towards  her;  she 
was  not  very  young,  but  she  was  fair  and  graceful. 

"It  is  Louise  Hunstan,  dear,"  Lena  said.  For 
some  reason  she  did  not  know,  Margaret  recoiled 
from  this  girl,  who  had  only  known  her  five  min- 
utes, yet  called  her  dear  and  was  affectionate  in 
her  manner. 

"You  must  let  me  look  at  you,"  Miss  Hunstan 
said.  The  twang  of  which  Mrs.  Lakeman  had 
spoken  was  faintly  evident,  but  it  gave  her  words 
a  charm  that  made  it  impossible  not  to  listen  to 
them.  "Now  tell  me,  do  you  love  it  or  hate  it, 
or  are  you  just  bewildered  with  this  great  London?" 
She  seemed  to  understand  the  stranger-mood  better 
than  the  others. 

"I  think  I  am  bewildered,"  Margaret  answered. 
"Everything  is  so  strange." 
72 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Of  course  it  is,"  Tom  Carringford  said,  "and 
we  stare  at  her  as  if  she  were  a  curiosity.  What 
brutes  we  are!  Never  mind,  Miss  Vincent,"  he 
laughed,  "  we  mean  well,  so  you  might  tell  us  your 
adventures  before  Mrs.  Lakeman  returns." 

He  gave  her  courage  again,  and  a  sense  of  safety. 
She  laughed  back  a  little  as  she  answered.  "Ad- 
ventures— do  people  have  adventures  in  London? 
It  sounds  like  Dick  Whittington. " 

"Just  like  Dick  Whittington,"  Lena  answered. 
"You  ought  to  carry  a  cat  under  your  arm  and 
marry  a  fairy  prince.  Isn't  she  beautiful?"  she 
whispered  to  Dawson  Farley. 

The  color  rushed  to  Margaret's  face.  "Oh, 
please  don't,"  she  said.  " I'm  not  a  bit  beautiful." 

"Where  have  you  come  from,  Miss  Vincent?" 
the  actor  asked,  as  if  he  had  not  heard. 

"From  Woodside  Farm  at  Chidhurst." 

"I  can  tell  you  all  about  her,"  Lena  said.  "My 
mother  was  once  engaged  to  her  father,  Gerald 
Vincent — "  Margaret  turned  quickly  as  if  to  stop 
her.  But  she  took  no  notice  and  went  on.  "He 
was  a  clergyman  then,  but  he  changed  his  opin- 
ions, left  the  Church,  and  wrote  some  articles  that 
made  a  sensation.  All  his  relations  were  furious, 
and  mother  couldn't  marry  him.  A  little  cry  came 
from  Margaret. 

"Oh!     How  could  she  tell  you?"  she  exclaimed. 

"You  oughtn't  to  have  told  us,  anyhow,"  Tom 
73 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Carringford  said,  turning  upon  Lena :  he  was  al- 
most distressed.  "It's  an  awful  shame  1" 

"Miss  Lakeman  didn't  mean  any  harm — she's 
not  like  any  one  else,"  Miss  Hunstan  said  to  Mar- 
garet, with  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  counted  for  more 
than  her  words. 

"It's  history,  dear — everybody  knows  it,"  Lena 
cooed,  soothingly.  "Besides,  I  always  tell  every- 
thing I  know,  about  myself  and  every  one  else. 
It's  much  the  best  way;  then  one  doesn't  get  any 
shocks  in  life,  and  isn't  told  any  secrets." 

"There's  something  in  that,"  Mr.  Farley  agreed, 
and  then  he  turned  to  Margaret;  "I've  read  some 
of  Mr.  Vincent's  articles.  They  are  beyond  my 
depth,  but  I  recognized  their  brilliance." 

"You  see?"  Lena  said,  with  a  shrug  that  im- 
plied it  was  impossible  to  cover  up  the  history  of  a 
famous  person.  Mr.  Farley  looked  at  her  impa- 
tiently and  then  at  the  stranger-girl:  it  was  odd 
how  different  from  themselves  they  all  felt  her  to  be. 

"Are  you  going  to  any  theatres?"  he  asked, 
trying  to  change  the  conversation.  "There  are 
all  sorts  of  things  to  see  in  London." 

"We  are  going  to  ' King  John '  to-night." 

"Mr.  Shakespeare  and  rather  slow,"  Tom  Car- 
ringford put  in,  gayly. 

"Ah,  that's  what  you  young  men  think,"  Mr. 
Farley  said — he  himself  was  under  forty. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  do  in  the  country,  little  Mar- 
74 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

garet?"  Lena  asked,  with  the  air  of  a  culprit  who 
loved  her,  and  ignoring  the  fact  that  Margaret  was 
a  good  five  foot  seven.  "  Do  you  bask  in  the  sun 
all  the  summer,  and  hide  beneath  the  snow  all 
the  winter,  or  do  you  behave  like  ordinary  mortals?" 

"  We  behave  like  ordinary  mortals.  Father  and 
I  read  a  great  many  books — "  she  began. 

"And  what  does  your  mother  do?" 

"Mother  and  Hannah  are  generally  busy  with 
the  farm  and  the  house." 

"Who  is  Hannah?" 

"  My  half-sister.  She  is  a  good  deal  older  than 
I  am." 

"Can't  you  see  it  all?"  Lena  said,  turning  to 
the  others.  "I  can,  as  clearly  as  possible.  Mrs. 
Vincent  and  Hannah  look  after  the  farm,  and 
Margaret  and  her  father  sit  together  and  read 
books.  The  farm  carts  rumble  by,  dogs  bark,  and 
chickens  wander  about ;  there  are  cows  in  the  fields, 
honeysuckle  in  the  hedges,  and  bees  in  the  hives 
at  the  end  of  the  garden.  In  my  thoughts  I  can 
see  them  all  jumbled  up  together,  and  hear  the 
notes  of  the  thrushes  in  the  trees." 

"  Rubbish ! ' '  said  Tom  Carringf ord.  "  Your  talk 
is  a  little  too  picturesque,  you  know.  It  always 
is.  I  can't  think  how  you  manage  to  invent  it  so 
quickly." 

"Are  you  eager,  now  that  you  have  come  into 
the  world?"  Lena  asked,  taking  no  notice  of  Tom's 
75 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

crushing  remark.  "Do  you  long  to  run  all  over 
it,  and  feel  as  if  you  could  eat  it  up?" 

"  Rubbish  1"  said  Tom  again.  "  She  doesn't  feel 
anything  of  the  sort." 

"Everybody  does  who  is  really  alive." 

"All  right,"  he  said,  imperturbably.  "I  am 
a  babe  unborn,  or  a  mummy."  Then  he  turned 
to  Margaret:  "I  have  to  go  now;  but  I  wish  I 
had  seen  your  father,  Miss  Vincent.  Where  are 
you  staying?" 

"At  the  Langham  Hotel — it's  in  Regent  Street." 

"Oh  yes,  we  know;  we  have  been  in  London 
for  some  time,  you  see,"  Mr.  Farley  laughed.  He 
liked  this  girl;  she  was  fresh  and  unspoiled,  he 
thought.  He  had  a  curious  hatred  of  Lena  Lake- 
man,  which  had  just  been  intensified  by  her  treat- 
ment of  Margaret.  There  were  times  when  he 
felt  that  he  should  like  to  strangle  her,  just  for  the 
good  of  the  community.  He  hated  her  wriggling 
movements,  her  low  tones,  her  sugary  manner, 
and  the  outrageous  things  she  said  and  did  with  an 
air  of  unconsciousness. 

Tom  Carringford  stood  talking  with  Miss  Hun- 
stan  before  he  departed.  They  appeared  to  be 
making  some  arrangement  together,  for,  as  he 
wished  her  good-bye  he  said,  "All  right,  then; 
I  will  if  I  can.  Anyhow,  may  I  look  in  at  tea-time 
to-morrow?" 

"You  may  look  in  at  any  time  you  like,"  Miss 
76 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Hunstan  said,  and  then  she  explained  to  Margaret : 
"  Mr.  Carringford  and  I  are  old  friends,  and  always 
have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other."  She  got 
up  when  he  had  gone.  "  I'm  going,  too,"  she  said ; 
"  but  I  wish  I  could  stay  longer."  She  held  out  her 
hand  to  Margaret.  "I  am  a  stranger  to  you,"  she 
said ;  "  but  I  should  like  you  to  know  that  I  am  an 
American  woman,  and  an  actress — who  was  once 
a  stranger,  too,  here  in  London.  I  hope  to  stay 
for  some  time,  and  if  you  come  up  again  and  would 
come  and  see  me,  either  at  the  theatre  or  at  my 
home,  I'd  be  more  glad  than  I  can  say,  for  you 
remind  me  of  a  girl  I  knew  in  Philadelphia,  and 
she  was  the  sweetest  thing  on  earth." 

"I  should  like  it  so  very  much,"  Margaret  said, 
gratefully. 

"Write  to  me  if  you  can,  for  I  wouldn't  like  to 
miss  you.  Anyway,  just  remember  that  I  live  in 
Great  College  Street,  Westminster;  and  you  will 
easily  find  it,  for  it's  quite  near  the  Abbey.  No, 
thank  you,  Miss  Lakeman,  I  won't  stay  for  tea. 
Good-bye." 

"I'll  walk  with  you,  Louise,"  Mr.  Farley  said. 
"Miss  Hunstan  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  too," 
he  told  Margaret.  "  We  knew  each  other  in  Amer- 
ica." 

Then,  when  they  were  alone,  Lena  went  up  to 
Margaret.  "I  am  glad  they  are  gone,"  she  said. 
"Now  we  shall  understand  each  other  so  much 
77 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

better,  and  you  must  tell  me"  —  she  stopped  to 
ring  the  bell — "all  about  yourself.  We  ought  to 
know  each  other,  when  we  remember — "  She  had 
been  speaking  in  an  intense  tone,  but  the  servant 
entered,  and  in  quite  an  ordinary  one  she  asked 
for  tea  to  be  brought  at  once;  then  turned  and 
immediately  resumed  the  intensity — "when  we 
remember  that  your  father  and  my  mother  were 
lovers." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,"  Margaret  answered,  almost 
vehemently,  but  with  a  sweetness  of  which  her 
listener  was  uneasily  sensible.  "It  was  all  fin- 
ished and  done  with  before  we  were  born.  I 
couldn't  bear  you  to  speak  of  it,  nor  of  my  father's 
opinions,  as  you  did  when  the  others  were  here; 
and  I  can't  now,  for  we  have  only  known  each  other 
an  hour.  There  are  some  things  we  should  only 
say  to  those  who  are  nearest  to  us,  and  very  seldom 
even  then." 

Lena  wriggled  a  little  closer.  "You  beautiful 
thing!  Imagine  your  knowing  that.  But  don't 
you  know  that  some  people  are  never  strangers? 
And  when  mother  brought  you  in  just  now  I  felt 
that  I  had  known  you  for  years.  You  must  love 
mother  and  me,  Margaret.  People  always  do; 
we  understand  so  well." 

"You  don't — you  can't — or  you  would  not  have 
spoken  as  you  did  before  those  strangers." 

"Didn't  you  hear  what  I  said?  I  am  one  of 
78 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

those  people  who  think  that  everything  we  do  and 
feel  should  be  spread  out  under  the  light  of  heaven. 
There  should  be  no  dark  corners  or  secret  places 
in  our  lives." 

"  But  why  did  you  say  that  my  father  and  your 
mother  were  lovers  once?  I  didn't  want  to  know 
that  he  had  ever  cared  for  any  one  but  my  own  dear 
mother."  Margaret  was  indignant  still. 

Lena  looked  at  her  with  a  bewildered  smile. 
"How  sweet  you  are,  and  how  unspoiled  by  the 
world,"  she  said.  "I  wish  I  could  come  and  live 
on  your  farm,  dear.  Tell  me  about  your  mother." 

"I  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  talk  about  her  to  any  one  I 
don't  know." 

"Do  you  love  her  very  much?" 

"  I  love  her  with  all  my  heart.     That  is  why — " 

"Tell  me  what  she  is  like." 

"I  can't.  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  her  to 
you." 

"  Do  you  feel  that  I  am  not  worthy?"  Lena  asked, 
with  a  gleam  of  amusement  in  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  think  you  worthy  or  unworthy,"  Mar- 
garet answered;  "but  I  don't  want  to  talk  about 
her  to  you." 

"You  are  very  curious,  little  Margaret.  I  am 
glad  we  have  met."  Lena  leaned  forward,  as 
if  she  were  trying  to  dive  into  the  innermost  depths 
79 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

of  the  soul  before  her,  but  Margaret  felt  half  afraid 
of  her,  as  of  something  uncanny. 

"I  don't  think  I  am  glad/'  she  whispered,  and 
shuddered. 

"But  you  mustn't  struggle  against  me,  dear — 
you  can't,"  she  whispered  back;  "because  I  un- 
derstand people  —  mother  and  I  do.  The  tea  is 
ready;  I  will  go  and  bring  your  father  here."  She 
rose  and  slipped  softly  through  the  curtains. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


VIII 

MRS.  LAKEMAN  looked  at  her  old  lover  trium- 
phantly. "I  felt,"  she  said,  "that  I  must  have 
you  to  myself  for  a  little  while.  I  couldn't  bear 
the  presence  even  of  that  dear  child."  Her  lis- 
tener fidgeted  a  little,  but  said  nothing.  "Gerald," 
her  voice  trembled,  but  in  the  tail  of  her  eye  there 
lurked  amusement,  "have  you  hated  me  all  these 
years?" 

"Why  should  I?  You  did  what  you  thought 
was  right,  and  so  did  I."  There  was  a  shade  of 
impatience  in  his  manner,  though  it  was  fairly 
polite. 

She  felt  in  an  instant  that  tragedy  would  be 
thrown  away  upon  him ;  she  changed  her  note  and 
tried  a  suspicion  of  comedy.  "I  would. have  stuck 
to  you  through  anything  else,"  she  said,  with  a 
shake  of  her  head  and  a  smile  that  she  meant  to  be 
pathetic.  "  I  would  have  gone  to  perdition  for  you 
with  pleasure — in  this  world." 

"Quite  so." 

"  I  often  think  you  people  who  do  away  with  the 
next  get  a  great  pull  over  us.  You  see  it's  going 
to  be  such  a  long  'business,  by  all  accounts." 

6  8l 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Yes."  He  looked  bored:  this  sort  of  joke  did 
not  amuse  him. 

"I  couldn't  help  myself.  I  couldn't  break  my 
father's  heart  and  bring  a  scandal  on  the  diocese; 
I  was  obliged  to  do  what  I  did/'  she  said,  with  a 
little  burst. 

"Of  course,  I  quite  understand  that/'  he  an- 
swered; "and,  to  be  frank,  I  think  it  would  be 
better  not  to  discuss  it  any  more." 

"You  will  always  be  dear  to  me/'  she  went  on, 
as  if  she  had  not  heard  him ;  "  and  when  Cyril  told 
me  you  were  at  Chidhurst,  I  felt  that  I  must  write 
and  ask  you  to  come  and  see  me.  I  nearly  took 
a  house  there,  but  it  fell  through."  Mr.  Vincent 
remembered  Sir  George  Stringer's  remark,  and 
said  nothing.  "Perhaps  I  should  have  been 
more  eager  if  I  had  known — and  yet  I  don't  think 
I  could  have  borne  it;  I  don't  think  I  could  have 
spent  a  summer  there  with  you  and — and — your 
wife" — she  stopped,  as  if  the  last  word  were  full 
of  tragedy,  and  repeated,  in  a  lower  tone — "  with 
you  and  your  wife  only  a  mile  off.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  see  her,"  and  quite  suddenly  she  burst  into 
tears. 

Mr.  Vincent  looked  at  her  awkwardly.  She  meant 
him  to  soothe  her,  to  say  something  regretful,  per- 
haps to  kiss  her  if  he  still  knew  how — she  doubt- 
ed it.  But  he  made  no  sign,  he  sat  quite  still, 
while  she  thought  him  a  fool  for  his  pains.  After 
82 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

a  moment's  silence  he  put  out  his  hand  and  touched 
her  arm. 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  didn't  take  the  house, 
then,"  he  said,  and  that  was  all. 

She  brushed  her  tears  away,  and  wondered  for 
a  moment  what  to  do  with  this  wooden  man,  who 
seemed  incapable  of  response  to  any  interesting 
mood  of  hers. 

"Tell  me  what  she  is  like,"  she  half  whispered. 

He  considered  for  a  moment.  "I  don't  think 
I  am  good  at  describing  people,"  he  answered,  in 
quite  an  ordinary  tone. 

"I  imagine  her"  —  she  began  and  stopped,  as 
though  she  were  trying  to  keep  back  just  the  ghost 
of  a  mocking  tone  that  would  come  into  her  voice 
— "a  dear,  good,  useful  creature,  a  clever,  manag- 
ing woman,  who  looks  after  everything  and  makes 
you  thoroughly  comfortable." 

"  I  believe  I  am  pretty  comfortable,"  he  answered, 
thoughtfully. 

"Oh!  And  do  you  help  with  the  farm?"  she 
asked,  with  a  possibility  of  contempt — it  depended 
on  his  answer. 

"  No,  I  fear  I  don't  do  that.  I  leave  it  to  her  and 
to  Hannah.  Hannah  is  her  daughter  by  her  first 
husband." 

"I  dare  say  he  was  very  different  from  you/' 
and  her  lip  curled. 

"I  don't  know  whether  he  was  or  not — I  never 
83 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

saw  him."  His  manner  was  beginning  to  be  im- 
patient again. 

"Tell  me  one  thing  more,"  she  said,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation ;  "  do  you  love  her  very  much?" 

He  looked  at  her  almost  resentfully.  "I  fail  to 
see  your  right  to  ask  that  question,"  he  said; 
"but,  since  you  have  done  so,  I  will  certainly  tell 
you  that  I  care  for  her  more  than  I  do  for  any  other 
woman  in  the  world." 

"Gerald!"  she  cried,  and  burst  into  tears  again; 
"I  feel  that  you  have  never  forgiven  me  —  that 
you  will  always  despise  me." 

"This  is  nonsense,"  he  said;  "and  I  don't  un- 
derstand what  you  are  driving  at.  We  broke  off 
with  each  other  years  ago.  You  married  another 
man,  and  presumably  you  were  very  happy  with 
him.  I  married  another  woman,  and  am  very 
happy  with  her,  and  there  is  nothing  more  to  be 
said." 

She  got  up  and  stood  with  her  back  to  the  dull, 
smouldering  fire ;  it  had  been  allowed  to  get  low,  for 
the  day  had  been  like  a  summer  one. 

"Just  like  you  men,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
little  laugh  and  a  sudden  change  of  manner. 
"You  are  curious  creatures;  sometimes  I  wonder 
if  you  are  anything  more  than  superior  animals. 
Shake  hands,  old  boy,  and  let  us  be  friends.  We 
are  middle-aged  people,  both  of  us.  Look  at  my 
gray  hair."  She  bent  her  head  almost  gayly, 
84 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

and  put  her  finger  along  a  narrow  line — "  Rather 
too  late  for  sentiment,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  I  think  it  is,"  he  was  surprised,  but  dis- 
tinctly relieved.  "Now  perhaps  you'll  tell  me 
when  it  was  that  Cyril  wrote  to  you?" 

"About  two  months  ago.  Poor  old  chap,  his 
marriage  wasn't  up  to  much — ei — ther."  She 
checked  the  last  word  and  finished  it  with  a  gasp. 
"Awful  pity,  you  know,  to  marry  a  woman  from 
a  music-hall.  Lucky  they  haven't  any  children, 
isn't  it?" 

"Perhaps  it  is,  on  the  whole." 

"  I  don't  like  the  account  of  his  health ;  it  sounds 
as  if  he  is  in  a  bad  way." 

"I'm  afraid  he  is,"  Mr.  Vincent  assented,  re- 
luctantly ;  and  then  he  added,  slowly,  for  he  always 
disliked  making  any  statement  concerning  him- 
self. "I  shall  probably  go  out  to  him." 

"I  knew  you  would,"  she  cried,  with  a  little 
glow  of  approval.  But  he  was  unresponsive  to 
this,  too.  "Of  course,  if  anything  happened,  the 
title  would  come  to  you?" 

He  looked  up  with  quick  indignation.  But 
before  he  could  speak  the  curtain  was  drawn  and 
Lena  appeared. 

"Are  you  coming  to  tea?"  she  asked,  taking 

them  both  in  with  a  long  look.     "  That  sweet  thing 

you  brought  to  me  just  now  and  I  are  waiting  for 

you."    She  went  up  to  Mr.  Vincent  and  held  out 

85 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

her  hand.  "I  have  heard  so  much  of  you/'  she 
said,  with  perfect  self-possession,  "  and  often  wished 
to  see  you."  She  opened  her  large,  dark  eyes  as 
if  to  show  that  they  were  full  of  appreciation. 

"This  is  your  daughter,  I  suppose?"  he  asked 
her  mother. 

The  question  was  so  like  Gerald,  Mrs.  Lakeman 
thought;  he  always  made  sure  of  even  his  most 
trivial  facts. 

"Yes,  this  is  my  daughter — my  ewe  lamb,  my 
Lena."  She  put  her  arm  round  Lena's  shoulders, 
and  once  more  there  was  a  thrill  in  her  voice;  but 
still  he  failed  to  respond.  He  looked  at  them  both 
with  a  little  embarrassment,  dramatic  situations 
were  beyond  him,  and  he  had  not  the  faintest  notion 
what  to  do  next. 

Mrs.  Lakeman  smiled  inwardly.  The  man  was 
a  perfect  idiot,  she  thought.  "Go,  darling,"  she 
said,  "we  are  coming." 

Lena  gave  Mr.  Vincent  another  of  her  long,  in- 
tense looks  as  she  turned  away.  "Do  come,"  she 
said;  "I  am  longing  to  hear  you  talk." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  but  I  don't  know  that  I 
have  anything  to  say."  The  suspicion  of  pat- 
ronage in  her  manner  amused  him,  but  it  irritated 
him  too,  and  he  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  house. 
Mrs.  Lakeman  made  a  step  towards  the  curtains 
through  which  her  daughter  had  disappeared,  then 
stopped,  and,  as  if  with  a  last  great  effort  she  had 
86 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

gathered  courage,  said,  "Tell  me  one  thing — is 
Margaret  like  her  mother?" 

He  considered  for  a  moment  before  he  answered. 
"I  think  she  is,"  he  said,  slowly.  "She  has  the 
same  eyes  and  mouth,  and  the  same  distinction 
of  carriage." 

"Oh!"  The  exclamation  was  almost  ironical. 
Then  they  went  to  the  dim  room  with  the  overpower- 
ing scent  of  flowers.  Lena  was  making  tea,  while 
Margaret  surveyed  the  arrangements  with  great 
interest.  They  were  so  different  from  any  she 
had  seen  before.  At  Woodside  Farm  a  cloth  was 
spread  over  the  oak  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
a  loaf  and  a  large  pat  of  butter,  a  substantial  cake, 
jam,  and  such  other  things  as  might  help  to  make 
a  serviceable  meal  were  set  out.  Occasionally  a 
savory  dish  of  ham  and  eggs  appeared,  or  of  chicken 
fried  in  batter,  of  which  the  cooking  was  a  matter 
of  pride  to  Hannah;  plates  and  knives  were  put 
round  for  each  person,  and  chairs  drawn  up;  al- 
together it  was  a  much  more  business-like  but  far 
less  elegant  affair  than  this  dainty  one  over  which 
Lena  presided. 

"  Good-bye,  Margaret  dear,  "  Mrs.  Lakeman  said  to 
her  ten  minutes  later;  "you  don't  know  what  it  has 
been  to  me  to  see  you,"  and  she  kissed  her  on  either 
cheek.  "  You  must  come  and  stay  with  us  some 
day.  Gerald,  you  will  let  her  come,  won't  you?" 
87 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Certainly,  if  she  wishes  it." 

"She  and  Lena  must  be  friends;  our  children 
ought  to  be  friends.  And  you  and  I,"  she  said, 
with  deeper  feeling  in  her  voice,  "must  not  lose 
sight  of  each  other  again." 

"Of  course  not,"  he  answered,  and  this  time  he 
managed  to  look  at  her  with  his  old  smile,  in  which 
there  had  always  been  a  charm.  It  went  to  her 
heart  and  made  her  a  natural  woman.  With 
something  like  a  sigh  she  watched  him  as  he 
descended  the  stairs. 

"I  could  love  him  now,"  she  thought,  "and  go 
to  the  devil  for  him  too,  with  all  the  pleasure  in  the 
world.  But  he's  so  abominably  good  that  he  will 
probably  be  faithful  to  his  farmer  woman  till  the 
breath  is  out  of  his  body." 

"  Well,  would  you  like  to  go  and  stay  there  some 
day?"  Mr.  Vincent  asked  Margaret. 

"No,"  she  answered,  quickly,  and  then  she 
added,  reluctantly,  and  because  she  couldn't  help 
it;  "I  don't  know  why  it  is,  father,  but  I  feel  as  if 
I  never  wanted  to  go  there  again." 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  What  the  answer 
meant  she  didn't  quite  understand,  but  she  rubbed 
her  shoulder  against  his  in  sheer  sympathy.  A 
hansom  gives  little  scope  for  variety  in  caresses, 
but  this  did  well  enough. 
88 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


IX 


AT  ten  o'clock  next  morning  Tom  Carringford 
appeared  at  the  Langham. 

"Miss  Vincent  said  you  were  staying  here,  so  I 
made  bold  to  come/'  he  explained,  with  a  boyish 
frankness  that  immediately  won  over  Mr.  Vincent. 
"  Please  forgive  me,  and  don't  think  it  awfully  cool 
of  me  to  come  so  early.  I  was  afraid  I  should  miss 
you  if  I  waited." 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,"  Mr.  Vincent  said. 
"I  knew  your  father  well."  And  in  a  moment 
Tom  was  quite  at  his  ease. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  '  King  John  ?"'  he  asked 
Margaret. 

"It  was  splendid;  and  a  theatre  is  a  wonderful 
place.  How  can  people  call  it  wicked?" 

"Well,  they  don't,"  he  laughed,  "unless  they 
are  idiots,  then  they  do,  perhaps,"  at  which  she 
laughed  too,  and  thought  of  Hannah.  "I  expect 
the  scenes  with  Arthur  gave  you  a  few  bad  mo- 
ments, didn't  they?"  he  asked. 

"She  wept,"  her  father  said,  evidently  amused 
at  the  recollection. 

"That's  all  right."  Tom  beamed  with  satis- 
89 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

faction.  She  was  a  nice  girl,  he  thought,  so  of 
course  she  wept ;  she  ought  to  weep  at  seeing  that 
sort  of  thing  for  the  first  time.  Then  he  turned  to 
Mr.  Vincent.  "My  father  would  be  glad  to  think 
I  had  seen  you  at  last,"  he  said;  "he  often  won- 
dered why  you  never  turned  up." 

"I  have  not  turned  up  anywhere  for  more  than 
five -and -twenty  years,"  Mr.  Vincent  answered. 
"If  I  had  he  would  have  seen  me."  He  was  look- 
ing at  Tom  with  downright  pleasure,  at  his  six 
feet  of  growth  and  broad  shoulders,  at  his  frank 
face  and  clear  blue  eyes.  This  was  the  sort  of 
boy  that  a  man  would  like  to  have  for  a  son, 
he  thought;  and  then,  after  a  moment's  charac- 
teristic hesitation,  he  said:  "Stringer  told  us  that 
you  went  to  Hindhead  sometimes ;  perhaps  one  day 
you  would  get  over  and  see  us?" 

"Should  like  it,"  said  Tom,  heartily. 

"You  have  left  Oxford,  of  course?" 

"Oh  yes,  last  year." 

"Any  ambitions?" 

"Plenty.  But  I  don't  know  whether  they'll 
come  to  anything.  I  believe  there'll  be  an  unpaid 
under -secretaryship  presently,  and  by -and -by  I 
hope  to  get  into  the  House.  Politics  are  rather 
low  down,  you  know,  Miss  Vincent,  so  they'll 
suit  me.  What  did  you  think  of  Miss  Hunstan? 
I  saw  her  last  night;  she  had  fallen  in  love  with 
you." 

90 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

" Had  she?"  Margaret  exclaimed,  joyfully.  "I'm 
so  glad.  I  love  her,  though  I  only  saw  her  for  a 
moment." 

"I'll  tell  her  so.  Every  one  does.  My  mother 
was  devoted  to  her;  that's  one  reason  why  I  am. 
She's  great  fun,  too,  though,  of  course,  she's  get- 
ting on  a  bit,"  he  added,  with  the  splendid  inso- 
lence of  youth.  "There's  something  more  at  the 
back  of  this  visit,"  and  he  looked  at  Mr.  Vincent. 
"I  have  been  wondering  if  you  are  really  going 
to-day?" 

"By  the  2.50  from  Waterloo.  We  can't  stay 
any  longer." 

"  Well — I  know  this  is  daring ;  but  couldn't  you 
both  come  and  lunch  with  me?  I  have  my  father's 
little  house  in  Stratton  Street,  and  should  like  to 
think  you  had  been  there.  It  would  be  very  good 
of  you." 

Mr.  Vincent  shook  his  head.     "No  time." 

"  You'll  have  to  lunch  somewhere,"  Tom  pleaded. 

"Yes,  but  I  must  go  to  my  lawyer's  almost  im- 
mediately, and  one  or  two  other  places,  and  don't 
quite  know  how  much  time  they'll  take  up." 

"Are  you  going  alone?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  look  here,"  Tom  exclaimed,  delighted  at 
his  own  audacity,  "if  you  are  going  to  lawyers 
and  people,  couldn't  I  take  Miss  Vincent  round 
and  show  her  something?  Picture-galleries,  Tower 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

of  London,  British  Museum,  Houses  of  Parliament, 
top  of  the  Monument — that  kind  of  thing,  you 
know.  We'd  take  a  hansom,  and  put  half  London 
into  a  couple  of  hours." 

"Could  I,  father — could  I?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

Mr.  Vincent  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  They 
were  boy  and  girl,  he  thought — Tom  was  twenty- 
two  and  Margaret  eighteen,  a  couple  of  wild  chil- 
dren, and  before  either  of  them  was  born  their 
fathers  had  been  old  friends.  Why  shouldn't  they 
go  out  together? 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  he  said,  "and  it  would 
prevent  her  from  spending  a  dull  morning." 

"Itsha'n't  be  dull  if  lean  help  it,"  Tom  an- 
swered, triumphantly. 

"I  may  really  go?"  Margaret  cried  and  kissed 
her  father.  "Oh,  father,  you  are  a  dear." 

She  was  a  dear,  too,  Tom  thought,  and  so  was 
the  old  man,  as  he  described  Mr.  Vincent  in  his 
thoughts. 

The  "  old  man  "  had  an  idea  of  his  own.  "  Bring 
Margaret  back  here  and  lunch  with  us,"  he  said; 
"  there  might  be  just  time  enough  for  that,  and  we 
will  go  and  see  you  on  another  occasion." 

"Good — good!"  And  Margaret  presently  found 
out  that  this  was  his  favorite  expression.  "It 
shall  be  as  you  say.  Now,  Miss  Vincent,  there's 
hard  work  before  us."  Five  minutes  later  Mr. 
Vincent  watched  them  start.  They  waved  their 
92 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

hands  to  him  from  the  hansom,  and  he  turned 
away  with  a  smile. 

"The  real  thing  to  do/'  Tom  told  Margaret, 
was  to  see  the  great  green  spaces  in  the  midst  of  a 
wonderful  city,  and  the  chestnuts  which  in  another 
month  would  be  in  bloom  in  Hyde  Park,  and  the 
Round  Pond  and  the  Serpentine.  "But  as,  after 
all,"  he  went  on,  "you  probably  have  trees  and 
ponds  at  Chidhurst,  we'll  begin  by  going  to  St. 
Paul's.  I'm  afraid,  seeing  the  limited  time  at  our 
disposal,  that  the  Tower  and  the  Monument  must 
be  left  alone."  A  brilliant  thought  struck  him 
as  they  were  driving  back  down  the  Strand  to  the 
Houses  of  Parliament.  "  We'll  take  Miss  Hunstan 
a  stack  of  flowers  from  Covent  Garden — you  must 
see  Covent  Garden,  you  know.  Hi!  cabby,  turn 
up  here — Covent  Garden;  we  want  to  get  some 
flowers." 

"Oh,  but  I've  brought  no  money  with  me." 

"I  have — heaps,"  he  laughed,  delighted  at  her 
innocence.  "I  had  an  idea  we  might  do  some- 
thing, you  know.  Now  then,  here  we  are.  You 
must  jump  out,  if  you  don't  mind." 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  centre  arcade, 
looking  in  at  the  shops,  as  happy  and  as  guileless 
as  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  first  garden  when  the 
world  was  all  their  own.  They  chose  a  stack  of 
flowers,  as  Tom  called  it ;  he  filled  Margaret's  arms 
with  them  just  for  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  her. 
93 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"You  make  quite  a  picture  loaded  with  them," 
he  said.  "Look  here,  I  should  like  to  give  you 
some  roses,  too,  if  you  will  have  them?"  he  said, 
almost  humbly.  "We  get  them  in  London,  you 
see,  before  you  do  in  the  country;  and  I  want  you 
to  take  some  back  with  you." 

"I  should  like  to  take  my  mother  some,"  she 
answered,  quite  unconscious,  of  course,  of  their 
value. 

"Good!  You  shall  take  her  a  heap  from  us 
both — I  should  like  to  send  her  some,  if  I  may. 
But  they  shall  meet  you  at  Waterloo  in  a  box, 
then  they'll  be  fresh  at  the  last  moment." 

Margaret  felt,  as  they  drove  on  again,  as  if  she 
had  found  a  playfellow,  a  comrade,  some  one  who 
made  life  a  wholly  different  thing.  She  had  never 
been  on  equal  terms  with  any  one  young  before — 
with  any  one  at  all  who  laughed  and  chattered  and 
looked  at  the  world  from  the  same  stand-point  as 
she  felt  that  she  and  Tom  did,  though  till  yesterday 
she  had  not  set  eyes  on  him.  It  was  a  new  delight 
that  the  world  had  suddenly  sprung  upgn  her. 
This  was  what  it  was  like  to  be  a  boy  and  girl 
together,  to  have  a  brother,  to  have  friends,  what  it 
would  be  like  if  some  day  in  the  future  she  were 
married :  people  went  about  then  laughing  and 
talking  and  delighting  in  being  together.  Oh, 
that  wonderful  word  together! 

"We  won't  go  to  the  Abbey,"  Tom  said,  "be- 
94 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

cause  you  did  that  yesterday,  and  before  we  in- 
spect the  House  of  Commons — " 

"Some  day  you  will  be  there!" 

"Some  day  I  shall  be  there/'  he  echoed;  "but 
before  I  show  you  the  identical  seat  in  which  it 
is  my  ambition  to  sit,  we'll  get  rid  of  these  flowers. 
Great  College  Street  is  here,  just  round  the  corner. 
I  wonder  if  she's  at  home.  Jolly  little  street,  isn't 
it?  with  its  low  houses  on  one  side  arid  the  old  wall 
on  the  other." 

"And  the  trees  looking  over — " 

"Here  we  are." 

He  flew  out  and  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was 
opened  by  a  gray-haired  woman,  middle-aged, 
and  with  a  kindly  face,  overmuch  wrinkled  for  her 
years.  Miss  Hunstan  had  gone  to  rehearsal, 
she  said. 

"Oh — what  a  bore!"  Tom  was  crestfallen.  Then 
a  happy  thought  struck  him.  "Look  here,  Mrs. 
Oilman,  we  have  brought  her  some  flowers.  Will 
you  let  us  come  and  stuff  them  into  her  pots?" 

"  To  be  sure,"  she  answered.  "  I'll  get  you  some 
water  at  once,"  and  she  made  off,  leaving  the  street 
door  open. 

"  Come  in,"  he  cried  to  Margaret.  "  Mrs.  Oilman 
knows  me,  and  she'll  let  us  arrange  them."  The 
hall  of  the  little  old-fashioned  house  was  panelled 
like  Mrs.  Lakeman's,  but  it  was  very  narrow  and 
painted  white,  and  there  were  no  fripperies  about. 
95 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Miss  Hunstan's  sitting-room  was  on  the  ground 
floor;  it  was  small,  and  the  walls  matched  the 
panelling  outside  it.  The  two  windows  went  up 
high  and  let  in  the  light,  and  the  bygone  centuries 
from  over  the  way.  In  front  of  them  were  muslin 
curtains,  fresh  and  white,  with  frills  to  their  edges. 
There  were  brass  sconces  in  the  wall  with  candles 
and  blue  silk  shades,  but  the  reading-lamp  on  the 
table  suggested  that  they  were  seldom  used.  On 
one  side  of  the  fireplace  was  a  writing-table  covered 
with  papers,  and  over  it  a  bookshelf ;  here  and  there 
a  photograph,  above  the  mantelpiece  an  autotype 
of  the  Sistine  Madonna  in  a  dark  brown  frame, 
and  beneath  it,  filled  with  white  flowers,  was  a 
vase  of  cheap  green  pottery;  there  were  other 
pots  of  the  same  ware  about  the  room,  but  they 
were  all  empty. 

"We  will  fill  them,"  Tom  said,  triumphantly. 

Margaret  looked  at  their  handiwork  with  de- 
light. "I  like  doing  this,"  she  said.  "But  it 
seems  such  an  odd  thing  to  be  here  in  a  stranger's 
room  among  the  things  that  help  to  make  up  a 
life — and  the  stranger  absent." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment.  "Somehow 
she  isn't  a  stranger,"  he  answered.  "  Lots  of  people 
are  strangers,  no  matter  how  long  you  know  'em, 
but  she  isn't,  even  at  the  beginning,  if  she  likes 
you.  Let's  put  these  daffodils  into  this  thing. 
Shall  we?" 

96 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"They  look  as  if  they  were  growing  out  of  the 
green  earth/'  she  said;  "pots  should  always  be 
green,  don't  you  think  so?  or  else  clear  glass,  like 
water." 

"Good,"  he  said,  and  went  on  cramming  the 
flowers  in.  At  last  there  were  only  the  pale  white 
roses  left. 

"We'll  put  them  here,"  Margaret  said,  and  set 
down  the  pot  by  the  photograph  of  a  thin,  sweet- 
looking  woman  on  the  left  of  the  writing-table. 

"That's  her  mother,"  Tom  said,  half  tenderly; 
Margaret  pushed  the  roses  nearer  to  it,  and  loved 
him  for  his  tone.  Then  when  all  the  flowers  were 
placed  about  the  little  blue  and  white  room,  and 
the  freshness  of  spring  was  its  own,  they  laughed 
again  like  the  light-hearted  children  they  were, 
and  went  out  to  their  cab. 

"Good-bye,  Mrs.  Gilman,"  Tom  cried,  as  he 
closed  the  doors.  "Tell  Miss  Hunstan  we  did  it 
— Miss  Vincent  and  I,  and  that  we  left  her  our 
blessing." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


THE  brown  cart  was  waiting  at  the  station,  a  suc- 
cessor to  the  heavy  one  of  former  days,  lighter 
and  better  built,  and  the  cob — a  new  cob — hurried 
along  with  it  as  though  it  were  a  cockle-shell. 
Hannah  was  not  there,  only  the  boy  who  went 
out  with  the  milk  in  the  morning.  He  sat  up  be- 
hind and  took  care  of  the  luggage,  while  Mr.  Vincent 
drove  with  his  daughter  beside  him,  contented 
and  happy.  The  visit  to  London  had  drawn 
them  closer  together.  To  Margaret  it  had  been  a 
strange  looking  back;  for  she  had  hardly  realized 
till  now  that  her  father  must  have  had  a  history 
before  the  day  when  he  had  entered  the  farm  gates 
and  seen  her  mother  for  the  first  time.  She  had 
heard  Hannah  speak  of  it — the  coming  of  the 
stranger,  as  it  had  remained  in  Hannah's  mind 
through  all  the  years  afterwards.  Margaret 
thought,  too,  of  her  grandfather  and  uncle,  the 
relations  of  whom  she  had  known  nothing  when 
she  started  yesterday.  She  was  glad  they  had 
been  people  of  position,  even  though  they  had  spent 
their  money  or  had  done  undesirable  things,  as 
something  in  her  father's  manner  seemed  to  imply ; 
98 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

for  it  made  her  father's  life  appear  a  more  impor- 
tant thing,  not  to  her,  but  in  the  world,  that  might 
otherwise  have  thought  it  merely  one  of  the  details 
of  the  farm  at  Chidhurst.  She  looked  at  the  moor 
as  they  drove  beside  it.  The  clumps  of  broom  and 
gorse  had  come  out  since  yesterday  full  and  golden 
in  the  sunshine.  The  fresh  green  of  the  whortle- 
berries was  showing  itself,  the  bell -heather  was 
struggling  into  bloom;  just  so  the  possibilities  of  life 
had  broken  into  her  imagination,  and  if  some  struck 
her  with  wonder,  there  were  others  that  filled  her 
with  joy.  An  unreasonable,  undefinable  happi- 
ness that  could  not  be  put  into  words  rose  to  her 
heart  when  she  thought  of  Tom  Carringford. 
She  could  hear  his  laughter  still,  and  his  merry 
talk  as  they  made  a  bower  of  Miss  Hunstan's 
room;  she  wanted  to  see  him  again  already,  and 
something  told  her  that  he  wanted  to  see  her. 

The  farm-yard  gates  were  wide  open.  It  was 
good  to  see  the  corner  of  the  Dutch  garden  again, 
and  in  the  porch,  just  as  Margaret  had  known  she 
would  be,  her  mother  stood  waiting.  Mr.  Vincent 
took  his  wife's  hand  without  a  word,  and  looked 
into  her  face  with  a  little  smile. 

"  We  have  come  home,"  he  said.  She  gave  him 
her  hand  for  a  moment,  then  turned  to  Margaret, 
who  saw  with  surprise  that  she  was  smarter  than 
usual.  She  wore  her  gray  cashmere  and  the  brooch 
with  the  topaz  in  it,  and  one  of  her  best  hemstitched 
99 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

handkerchiefs  was  pushed  into  the  front  of  her 
dress.  A  smile  came  to  her  lips  as  she  answered 
the  question  in  Margaret's  eyes. 

"Hannah  didn't  go  to  the  station,"  she  said, 
"for  Mr.  Garratt  came  over  this  afternoon.  Tea 
has  been  ready  this  hour  and  more,  but  we  waited 
for  you." 

A  fresh  cloth  was  on  the  table  in  the  living- 
room,  there  was  a  vase  of  flowers  in  the  middle, 
the  best  china  was  put  out,  and  fresh-cooked  scones 
and  other  good  things  were  visible.  Near  the 
fireplace  stood  Hannah,  looking  a  little  defiant 
and  rather  shamefaced.  Margaret  noticed  that 
her  hair  was  brushed  back  tighter  than  ever  and 
shone  more  than  usual.  At  her  neck  was  a  bow 
of  muslin  and  lace,  of  which  she  seemed  uncom- 
fortably conscious.  Beside  her,  brisk  and  business- 
like, with  a  happy,  self-satisfied  expression  on  his 
face,  stood  a  youthful-looking  man  of  eight-and- 
twenty.  He  was  fair  and  had  a  smart  air  with  him. 
His  hair  was  carefully  parted  in  the  middle  and 
curled  a  little  at  the  tips.  He  had  a  small 
mustache,  which  he  stroked  a  great  deal  and  pulled 
back  towards  his  ears.  He  wore  a  cutaway  coat 
and  a  navy-blue  tie  with  white  spots  on  it,  and  a 
gold  watch-chain  wandered  over  his  waistcoat. 
Margaret  saw  in  a  moment  that  he  was  altogether 
different  from  the  men  who  were  her  father's  friends 
— from  Mr.  Carringford,  for  instance,  or  Sir  George 
100 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Stringer,  with  whom  she  had  felt  natural  and  at 
home.  There  was  something  about  this  man 
that  made  her  haughty  and  on  the  defensive  even 
before  she  had  spoken  to  him. 

"Your  train  must  have  been  late.  Tea's  been 
waiting  this  long  time,"  Hannah  said.  "  However, 
it's  to  be  hoped  you've  enjoyed  yourselves."  Her 
manner  was  quite  amiable,  but  a  little  confused, 
as  was  only  to  be  expected. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Garratt,"  Mrs.  Vincent  said.  "  You 
will  like  to  meet  him,  father;  he  has  always  known 
James's  people  at  Petersfield." 

"How  do  you  do,  sir;  pleased  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance, I'm  sure,"  Mr.  Garratt  said.  "I  hope 
you've  had  a  pleasant  visit  to  London?" 

"How  do  you  do?"  Mr.  Vincent  answered,  won- 
dering whether  this  lively  young  man  could  really 
be  in  love  with  the  sedate  Hannah. 

"And  Miss  Vincent,  I'm  pleased  to  meet  you," 
Mr.  Garratt  went  on,  in  a  genial  tone.  "Have 
often  heard  of  you,  and  hope  you've  enjoyed  your- 
self since  you've  been  away." 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  Margaret  answered,  distantly. 

"  I  dare  say  you've  come  back  ready  for  your  tea. " 
This  was  by  way  of  a  little  joke.  "  There's  nothing 
like  a  railway  journey,  with  the  country  at  the 
end  of  it,  for  starting  an  appetite,"  to  which  she 
vouchsafed  no  reply,  feeling  instinctively  that  it 
would  be  wise  to  keep  Mr.  Garratt  at  a  distance. 
101 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Then  the  business  of  tea  was  entered  upon, 
reflectively,  and  almost  in  silence,  as  was  the  cus- 
tom at  Woodside  Farm.  The  silence  puzzled  Mr. 
Garratt  a  little,  this  being  his  first  visit;  then  he 
wondered  if  it  were  a  compliment  to  himself,  and 
whether  these  quiet  people  were  shy  before  him. 

"Is  there  much  doing  in  London?"  he  asked 
Mr.  Vincent,  thinking  perhaps  that  he  was  ex- 
pected to  lead  the  conversation. 

"I  suppose  so/'  Mr.  Vincent  answered,  a  little 
coldly. 

"  I  always  think  myself  that  it  does  one  good  to 
go  up.  I  dare  say  you  find  the  same?  Did  you 
stay  at  one  of  the  hotels  in  the  Strand?" 

"We  stayed  at  the  Langham." 

"It's  rather  swagger  there,  you  know."  Mr. 
Garratt  thought  this  would  be  a  pleasing  remark. 

"It's  very  quiet,"  Mr.  Vincent  said,  haughtily. 

"Did  you  go  anywhere,  father?"  Mrs.  Vincent 
asked. 

"Yes;  we  went  to  Westminster  Abbey." 

"Magnificent  building,  Westminster  Abbey," 
Mr.  Garratt  put  in.  "What  did  you  think  of  it, 
Miss  Vincent?" 

"I  don't  think  I  could  say  just  yet,"  Margaret 
answered;  "it  was  only  yesterday  that  I  saw  it." 

"Quite  right;  it  doesn't  do  to  make  up  one's 
mind  too  soon,"  Mr.  Garratt  remarked,  cheerily, 
at  which  Hannah  looked  up  a  little  sharply. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"For  my  part/'  she  said,  "I  like  people  to  know 
at  once  what  they  think,  and  what  they  mean." 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  answered,  looking  back  at 
her,  "it  isn't  difficult  sometimes."  Whereupon 
the  color  came  to  her  face  and  amiability  to  her 
expression.  "What  else  did  you  see  in  London, 
Miss  Vincent?"  he  turned  to  Margaret  again. 

Something  prompted  Mr.  Vincent  to  answer  for 
her,  and  with  extreme  gravity:  "We  went  to  the 
theatre." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,"  Hannah  said. 

"And  how  did  you  like  it?"  Mr.  Garratt  asked 
Margaret,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  Hannah's  re- 
mark. 

"It  was  wonderful,"  she  answered.  "I  long  to 
go  again." 

"It's  a  place  of  iniquity,"  Hannah  said,  firmly. 

Mr.  Vincent  looked  across  at  her.  A  sharp  an- 
swer rose  to  his  lips,  but  he  remembered  that  the 
Petersfield  young  man  was  a  suitor,  and  had  been 
long  expected.  Before  he  could  speak  Margaret 
struck  in,  quickly : 

"  It  was  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays  that  we  saw. " 

"I  have  read  a  good  many  of  them,"  Hannah 
remarked,  not  in  the  least  pacified. 

"Then,  of  course,  you  are  aware,  Miss  Barton, 

that  they  are  mostly  historical,"  Mr.  Garratt  said, 

in  a  conciliatory  voice,  "and  it  may  be  said  that 

to  read  him,  or  even  to  see  him  acted,  makes  us 

103 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

familiar  with  historical  knowledge;"  a  sentence 
at  which  Mr.  Vincent  gave  a  little  snort,  but  said 
nothing. 

Hannah  was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  an 
argument.  "History  may  teach  us  some  lessons, 
Mr.  Garratt,"  she  said,  "  but  we  can  read  them,  just 
as  we  can  read  other  lessons.  There  is  no  occasion 
to  do  more;  and  as  for  play-acting  teaching  us 
history,  once  people  have  taken  to  their  graves 
they  might  be  left  to  lie  in  them  and  not  be  brought 
out  and  used  as  puppets  that  dance  to  man's 
imagination."  Mr.  Vincent  looked  up;  he  was 
becoming  interested.  "Moreover,"  continued  Han- 
nah, "  it's  making  a  mock  of  God,  for  only  He  can 
bring  the  dead  to  life." 

"What  you  say  is  very  true,  Miss  Barton,"  Mr. 
Garratt  answered,  sending  another  furtive  look  at 
Margaret,  "and  I  never  think  myself  that  Shake- 
speare is  as  interesting  as  a  good  modern  piece." 

"Do  you  go  to  the  theatre  then,  Mr.  Garratt?" 
she  asked,  quickly  putting  down  the  teapot,  but 
still  keeping  her  hand  on  its  handle. 

"I  don't  make  a  practice  of  it,  Miss  Barton,  but 
if  one  is  in  London  one  is  tempted  to  do  as  London 
does.  Moreover,  I  believe  in  seeing  the  world  as 
it  is,  rather  than  in  holding  off  because  it  is  not 
as  one  wants  it  to  be,"  he  added,  with  the  air  of  a 
moralist,  but  an  obvious  capacity  for  enjoyment 
lurking  behind  it. 

104 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"The  world  should  be  made  a  wilderness  for 
the  evil-doer — "  Hannah  began,  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  remember  a  bit  from  a  sermon. 

"There  should  be  a  voice  crying  in  the  wilder- 
ness, Miss  Barton — "  Mr.  Garratt  stopped,  for  it 
occurred  to  him  that  he  might  be  going  too  far. 

"Or  what  would  be  the  good  of  the  wilder- 
ness?" Mr.  Vincent  asked.  "We  have  finished 
tea,  I  think?"  He  rose  and  went  to  the  best 
parlor.  The  years  he  had  spent  out  of  the  world, 
as  he  had  once  known  it,  made  him  a  little  intol- 
erant of  many  things,  of  this  vulgar  and  good- 
tempered  young  man  with  an  eye  to  the  main 
chance  among  them.  But  Mr.  Garratt  would  do 
well  enough  for  Hannah — in  fact,  nothing  could 
be  better,  for  evidently  he  was  not  narrow,  and 
this  might  have  a  good  effect  upon  her.  For 
himself  and  his  daughter  and  for  his  wife  there 
was  a  different  plane,  a  different  point  of  view. 
The  visit  to  London  had  made  him  see  even  more 
clearly  than  before  the  manner  of  woman  he  had 
married,  and  for  the  first  time,  after  all  these  years 
and  in  the  autumn  of  their  days,  he  was  nearly 
being  her  lover. 

Just  as  if  his  thought  had  brought  her  to  him, 
she  put  her  head  inside  the  door  and  asked,  as  she 
always  did : 

"  Are  you  busy,  father,  or  shall  I  come  to  you  for 
a  little  while?" 

105 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

He  got  up  and  went  to  her.  "I  wanted  you/' 
he  said.  "  Come  and  sit  by  the  window ;  there  are 
a  good  many  things  to  say. "  She  felt  as  if  heaven 
had  flashed  its  joy  into  her  heart;  but  only  for  a 
moment,  then  dread  took  its  place. 

"Is  the  news  bad  from  London?"  she  asked. 

"It's  not  good,"  he  said.  "That  is  one  reason 
why  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  dear  wife."  He  stopped 
a  moment  before  he  went  on.  "I  have  told  you 
two  or  three  times  that  you  know  nothing  about 
me  or  my  people.  Now,  that  I  shall  probably  be 
going  away  very  soon  and  that  Margaret  is  grown 
up,  I  think  you  ought  to  know  about  them:  one 
can  never  tell  what  may  happen.  There  is  not 
much  to  their  credit  to  say — or  to  mine,  I  fear," 
he  added,  and  then,  quite  briefly,  he  gave  her  the 
points  of  the  family  history,  and  made  known 
to  her  the  possibilities  in  the  future.  She  was 
not  elated  —  he  had  known  that  she  would  not 
be;  but  she  was  surprised,  and  a  little  offended. 

"I  didn't  think  there  was  this  behind,"  she  said; 
"I  don't  know  what  people  will  say." 

"Is  there  any  occasion  to  tell  them?" 

"I  don't  suppose  there  is,"  she  answered,  ab- 
sently, and  then,  with  an  anxious  look  in  her  clear 
eyes,  she  said  the  one  thing  that  hurt  him  in  all 
the  years  he  knew  her.  "Father,  you  didn't 
hold  it  back  because  you  didn't  think  us  good 
enough?" 

106 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

He  turned  round  quickly.  "If  it  was  anything 
of  that  sort,''  he  answered,  "it  was  because  I  did 
not  think  myself  good  enough.  My  people  led 
useless,  extravagant  lives,  and  my  own  has  not 
been  much  better.  I  have  felt  ashamed  that  you 
should  know  anything  concerning  us,  and  it  wasn't 
necessary  for  our  contentment  here." 

"No,"  she  said,  slowly,  "it  wasn't." 

"  Nor  is  it  any  more  necessary  to  tell  people  our 
affairs  now  than  it  has  been  hitherto.  If  Cyril 
dies  I  shall  not  alter  my  name — what  good  would 
a  title  be  to  me?  I  have  no  son  to  come  after  me, 
no  one  at  all  to  inherit  anything  except  Margaret, 
for  whom  this  doesn't  matter." 

"I'm  glad  you've  told  Margaret,"  Mrs.  Vincent 
answered.  She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
then  went  on,  thoughtfully :  "  She  is  changing  in 
herself;  I  can  feel  it.  She'll  not  be  content  here 
always.  She  is  stretching  her  wings  already, 
like  a  young  bird  that  is  waiting  to  fly." 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  she  had  better  stay  quietly 
here  till  my  return,"  he  said.  "By-the-way,  an 
old  friend  of  mine  has  taken  the  vicarage  house — 
Sir  George  Stringer;  he  is  sure  to  come  over  and 
see  you." 

"We  are  getting  very  grand,  father,"  she  said, 

ruefully,  resenting  it  a  little  in  her  heart.     She 

had  been  so  well  content  with  her  own  station  in 

life,  and  had  never  wished  to  see  it  either  lifted  or 

107 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

lowered;  the  first  seemed  undignified  to  her,  the 
last  would  have  meant  humiliation. 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference,  dear/'  he  said. 
"  We  were  a  worthless,  ramshackling  set,  who  put 
such  privileges  as  we  had  under  our  feet ;  and  as 
for  me,  I  haven't  even  enough  grace  to  take  me  to 
church  on  Sunday.  I  want  to  forget  everything 
but  the  life  of  the  last  twenty  years — you,  and 
Margaret. " 

She  put  her  hands  up  slowly  to  his  shoulders. 
"Father,"  she  said,  "you  will  never  know  what 
you  have  been  to  me,  never  in  this  world." 

"I  do,"  he  answered;  "I  know — well." 

"And  I  couldn't  bear  that  you  should  be  any- 
thing but  just  what  you  have  been  always." 

"I  never  shall  be  anything  else,"  he  answered, 
and  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "We  won't  tell 
Hannah  about  this,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  don't 
suppose  Margaret  will.  There's  no  reason  to 
make  a  mystery  of  it;  if  it  comes  out,  well  and 
good,  but  if  not  we  can  be  silent." 

"I'd  rather  she  didn't  know,"  Mrs.  Vincent 
answered,  "unless  she  finds  it  out;  she'd  only  be 
talking  and  thinking  things  I  wouldn't  bear." 

Meanwhile  Towsey  and  Hannah  were  clearing 
away  the  tea  things:  Margaret  went  out  to  the 
porch  and  looked  at  the  garden  and  the  beechwood 
she  loved  rising  high  beyond  it.  Mr.  Garratt 
108 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

cast  a  quick  glance  towards  the  kitchen,  and  in  a 
moment  he  was  by  her  side. 

"  Are  you  inclined  for  a  little  stroll,  Miss  Vin- 
cent?" 

His  eyes  said  more  than  his  words.  She  went 
a  step  forward  and  stood  by  a  lilac  bush. 

"No/'  she  said,  "I  am  going  in  directly." 

The  sunset  with  a  parting  shaft  of  gold  touched 
her  hair;  a  whispering  breeze  carried  a  message 
from  the  roses  to  her  cheek,  and  she  was  young — 
young,  the  dawn  was  in  her  eyes,  she  seemed  to 
listen  to  the  song  of  birds,  to  belong  to  the  flowers 
that  were  springing  from  the  earth.  She  was 
different  altogether  from  Hannah.  A  dozen  pos- 
sibilities darted  through  his  mind.  His  heart 
beat  quicker,  his  usual  ready  speech  failed  him, 
he  stood  tugging  at  his  mustache  and  thinking 
that  he  had  never  seen  a  girl  like  this  before — 
but  suddenly  he  was  recalled  to  common-sense. 

"Mr.  Garratt,"  Hannah  said,  her  voice  was 
severe  and  unflinching,  "if  you  want  to  see  the 
grave  of  your  aunt  Amelia,  I  will  take  you." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XI 


MR.  VINCENT  started  for  AuvStralia  a  week  after 
his  visit  to  London.  In  the  first  hours  of  his 
sailing  Mrs.  Vincent  and  Margaret  measured  in 
their  hearts  every  length  the  ship  took  onward, 
while  Hannah  wondered  whether  the  Lord  would 
let  it  get  safely  to  its  journey's  end,  and  prayed 
fervently  for  Jews,  Turks,  and  infidels.  For 
Hannah  did  not  pretend  to  regret  his  departure. 
"It  will  be  good  for  him  to  be  away,"  she  said  to 
her  mother,  "and  it's  as  well  the  place  should  be 
left  for  a  bit  to  those  whose  hold  was  on  it  before 
he  came  and  will  be  after  he's  gone."  There  was 
no  question  of  her  supremacy  after  Mr.  Vincent 
departed,  and  her  mother  was  as  wax  in  her  hands. 
But  it  was  not  only  for  peace,  and  because  of  a 
vague  feeling  that  she  owed  Hannah  an  indefinite 
reparation  for  the  fact  that  she  had  set  another  man 
in  her  father's  place,  that  Mrs.  Vincent  gave  way ; 
it  was  also  because  the  keen  interest  she  had  once 
taken  in  the  working  of  the  farm  had  been  grad- 
ually lulled,  even  half-forgotten,  in  her  great  love 
for  the  man  she  had  first  seen  when  middle-age 
had  already  overtaken  her.  There  was  another 
no 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

reason,  too,  but  it  existed  unknown  to  any  one, 
even  to  herself.  Mrs.  Vincent  had  become  less 
active  in  the  last  year  or  two,  more  silent  and 
thoughtful.  Her  hair  was  grayer,  the  lines  on 
her  face  were  deeper,  dull  pains  beset  her  some- 
times, and  a  lethargy  she  could  not  conquer.  She 
put  it  down,  as  those  about  her  did,  to  the  gather- 
ing years  and  the  hurrying  of  time;  now  and 
then  it  struck  her  that  she  "wasn't  over  well, 
that  some  day  she'd  see  a  doctor,"  but  she  dis- 
missed the  idea  with  the  conviction  that  it  was 
nothing,  only  that  she  was  growing  old  —  the 
worst  disease  of  all,  she  thought,  since  every  hour 
of  life  was  sweet  that  she  spent  in  the  world  that 
held  her  husband.  Oddly  enough,  she,  as  well 
as  Hannah,  had  been  almost  relieved  when  he 
went.  It  was  the  right  thing  for  a  man  to  go  out 
and  see  the  world ;  no  women  folk  should  tie  him 
down  forever;  she  even  felt  a  little  unselfish  pleas- 
ure in  remembering  that  it  was  she  who  had  first 
proposed  it.  While  he  was  away  she  determined 
to  rest  well,  and  sleep  away  her  tiredness  and 
all  the  uneasiness  it  brought,  so  that  she  might 
be  strong  to  welcome  him  back.  But  after  the 
excitement  of  getting  him  ready,  and  the  passionate 
though  undemonstrative  farewell,  a  reaction  came. 
She  shut  herself  up  in  her  room  once  or  twice,  so 
that  her  tears  might  not  be  suspected;  or,  when 
she  had  grown  more  accustomed  to  his  absence, 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

sat  brooding  in  the  living-place  or  the  porch,  try- 
ing to  imagine  what  he  was  doing  and  to  picture 
his  surroundings. 

"I  must  be  a  fool  to  go  on  like  this  at  my  age/' 
she  said  to  herself ;  "  I  wouldn't  let  the  girls  know 
for  anything." 

For  Margaret,  her  father's  going  brought  all 
sorts  of  restrictions  and  limitations ;  but  her  mother 
was  too  much  wrapped  up  in  her  own  dreams  to 
perceive  it,  or  to  draw  closer  to  her  than  before, 
and  so  to  make  up  for  the  loss  of  his  companion- 
ship. Thus  Hannah  was  free  to  show  the  dislike 
she  had  always  felt  and  to  worry  her  with  petty 
tyrannies. 

"  The  best  parlor  will  be  used  by  any  one  who 
likes  till  he  returns,"  she  promptly  announced. 
"It  has  been  kept  apart  long  enough,  as  if  the 
whole  of  the  house  wasn't  fit  for  those  who  own 
it  to  live  in,  unless  it  was  sometimes  by  way  of  a 
treat." 

"It  was  kept  apart  because  father  wanted  to 
read  and  write  and  be  quiet,"  Margaret  said. 

"Well,  there's  no  one  who  need  read  and  write 
now ;  you  can  do  more  useful  things,  and  will  be 
all  the  better  for  it;  as  for  being  quiet,  well,  there's 
others  that  will  want  to  be  quiet  sometimes,  and 
it  '11  do  for  them.  Mr.  Garratt  is  coming  over  to 
his  dinner  on  Sundays,  and  we  shall  sit  there  in  the 
afternoon — if  we  are  not  taking  a  walk.  Mother 
112 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

is  always  in  the  porch,  and  we  don't  want  you 
hanging  about  us." 

"  I  am  glad  to  get  away/'  Margaret  said,  quickly. 

"  You  do  your  best  to  keep  his  eyes  fixed  on  you, 
anyway;  but  you  needn't  think  you'll  draw  him 
to  yourself;  it  isn't  likely  he'd  mean  anything  by 
an  unbeliever." 

"I  don't  want  him,"  Margaret  cried,  and  fled 
up  to  the  beech  wood  that  stood  high  behind  the 
farm  as  though  it  were  the  landscape's  crown. 
Here,  in  some  inconsequent  manner  born  of  the 
instinct  that  only  comes  to  a  woman's  heart,  she 
waited  for  Tom  Carringford,  or  for  news  of  him. 
That  happy  morning  in  London  had  changed  the 
whole  current  of  her  thoughts,  had  put  some- 
thing strange  and  sweet  into  her  life  that  she  did 
not  attempt  to  define  and  hardly  knew  to  be  there. 
But  she  wanted  to  see  him  again — and  she  waited, 
dreaming  as  her  mother  did,  yet  differently.  He 
would  come,  or  he  would  write,  and  soon;  she  felt 
it  and  knew  it.  But  the  days  went  by,  and  the 
weeks,  and  the  first  month  of  her  father's  absence, 
and  nothing  happened.  She  was  a  little  disap- 
pointed, yet  thought  herself  unreasonable,  for, 
of  course,  he  was  thinking  of  his  under-secretary- 
ship,  building  castles  concerning  his  parliamentary 
career — in  Margaret's  thoughts  he  was  sure  to  be 
prime-minister  some  day — or  going  out  with  his 
friends  ;  and  she  thought  uneasily  of  the  Lake- 
»  113 


MARGARET     VINCENT 

mans — he  had  no  time  to  go  to  Hindhead,  or  to  re- 
member her  father's  invitation.  And  why  should 
she  expect  him  to  write?  He  would  come,  perhaps, 
when  Sir  George  Stringer  was  established  at  the 
house  on  the  hill. 

But  of  Sir  George  there  was  not  a  sign.  Every 
day,  in  the  early  morning,  or  in  the  twilight, 
she  hurried  through  the  fields,  towards  the  road 
on  which  the  church  and  the  garden  entrance  to 
his  house  faced  each  other  on  either  side;  but  the 
gates  were  always  closed,  and  a  chain  round  them 
fastened  by  a  padlock  showed  that  as  yet  he  was 
not  expected.  Then  she  came  away  slowly,  and 
with  dull  disappointment  in  her  heart,  which 
Hannah's  temper  and  tyranny  emphasized  till 
she  could  hardly  bear  it.  The  foundations  of 
life  seemed  to  be  giving  way — she  felt  it  as  she 
passed  the  windows  of  the  empty  best  parlor,  or 
saw  her  mother,  erect  still,  but  older  and  graver, 
sitting  in  the  porch.  The  happiness  of  home,  the 
dear  home  of  all  her  life,  had  waned  lately. 

"Are  you  well,  mother?"  she  asked  one  day, 
uneasily.  " Sometimes  I  think  you  are  suffering." 
This  was  five  weeks  after  Mr.  Vincent  had  started. 

"It's  nothing,  Mrs.  Vincent  answered.  "I'm 
getting  on  in  years,  Margey;  at  fifty-six  aches 
and  pains  have  a  right  to  take  some  hold  on  one. 
I  shall  be  better  when  your  father  returns;  per- 
haps I  did  a  little  too  much  before  he  went." 
114 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Yes,  you  did,  darling,"  Margaret  answered, 
kissing  the  hands — large,  capable  hands,  that  not 
even  the  rough  farm-work  had  ever  made  coarse. 

"There'll  be  a  good  many  months  to  rest  in 
before  he  comes/'  Mrs.  Vincent  went  on;  "perhaps 
it's  as  well  that  he's  away  for  a  bit." 

"  But,  mother  dear,  you  used  to  be  so  active  only 
a  little  while  ago." 

"You  see,  Hannah's  older,  and  likes  doing 
things  herself,"  Mrs.  Vincent  answered;  "and 
that's  as  well,  too;  it  gives  me  time  to  think  over 
all  the  years  back.  I  was  never  able  to  do  it  before. 
You  mustn't  trouble  about  me,  Margey;  when 
people  are  getting  on  they  like  being  quiet."  It 
was  evident  that  her  mother  wanted  to  be  let  alone, 
and  Margaret  respected  her  wish,  though  it  made 
her  own  life  more  difficult. 

And  then  there  was  Mr.  Garratt,  brisk  and  vul- 
gar, with  the  veneer  of  shoddy  education  over  him, 
and  the  alertness  of  intelligence  that  is  bent  on 
"getting  on"  and  making  the  most  of  chances. 
His  coming  and  going  would  have  been  of  little 
consequence  to  Margaret  if  he  had  but  left  her  alone. 
But  this  was  precisely  what  he  would  not  do.  She 
spoke  to  him  as  little  as  possible,  and  showed 
unconsciously  that  she  thought  him  a  rather  in- 
ferior person;  but  Mr.  Garratt  faced  everything, 
and  was  a  difficult  young  man  to  abash. 

Moreover,  Mr.  Garratt  had   lately  been  going 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

through  an  acute  phase  of  his  own,  for  possibilities 
had  suggested  themselves  that  puzzled  and  dis- 
tracted him.  He  had  seized  a  chance  to  improve 
his  business  by  establishing  a  branch  at  Guildford, 
where  he  proposed  to  live  during  the  summer 
months,  leaving  the  Petersfield  branch,  more  or 
less,  to  take  care  of  itself.  Land  had  gone  up  in 
Surrey ;  there  was  a  good  deal  of  buying  and  selling 
to  be  done  among  the  people,  who  were  anxious 
to  build  the  red-brick  houses  at  which  Sir  George 
Stringer  had  scoffed,  and  it  had  occurred  to  Mr. 
Garratt  that  the  fashion  might  be  used  to  his  profit. 
Besides,  he  was  tired  of  Petersfield.  Guildford  was 
nearer  town;  "a  better  class  of  people  go  there," 
he  said,  with  the  knowingness  that  grated  on 
Margaret.  It  had  lately  become  a  rule  that  he  ap- 
peared on  Sunday  morning  and  went  to  church 
with  Mrs.  Vincent  and  Hannah,  walking  back 
with  them  to  the  mid-day  meal,  which  never  varied 
— cold  beef  and  baked  plum-pudding  in  the  winter, 
cold  lamb  and  fruit  tart  in  the  summer,  always 
eaten  in  .silence,  as  if  the  Sabbath  were  a  time  of 
penance — and  after  it  he  was  expected  to  submit, 
as  he  knew  quite  well,  to  a  tete-&-tete  in  the  best 
parlor.  But  while  he  was  getting  his  house  and 
office  ready  at  Guildford  he  often  found  it  possible 
to  take  the  afternoon  train  to  Haslemere,  and  at 
Haslemere  he  hired  a  little  dog-cart  with  a  fat,  gray 
pony,  and  drove  himself  over  to  Chidhurst,  where 
116 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

he  stayed  to  tea,  driving  himself  back  again  in  the 
early  summer  twilight.  It  was  concerning  the 
line  he  should  take  on  these  afternoons,  that  were 
somehow  easier  than  the  Sunday  visits,  that  he 
was  exercised  in  his  mind.  He  had  first  considered 
Hannah  from  a  matrimonial  point  of  view  on  the 
advice  of  his  mother,  who  had  been  assured  by  old 
Mrs.  James  Barton,  of  Petersfield,  that  she  would 
ultimately  possess  Woodside  Farm.  It  had  seemed 
to  Mr.  Garratt  that,  by  the  time  he  was  prepared 
to  retire,  the  farm  would  be  an  excellent  retreat  for 
his  old  age,  and  meanwhile  Hannah  would  make 
him  a  careful  wife.  But  he  was  a  far-seeing  young 
man,  who  had  a  way  of  considering  things  in  all 
their  bearings,  hence  he  had  purposely  held  aloof 
for  a  long  time,  for  the  simple  reason  that  there  was 
no  occasion  to  hurry.  He  knew  what  Hannah 
was  like,  and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that,  on 
the  whole,  she  would  do.  But  she  did  not  inspire 
him  to  any  display  of  sentiment,  and  there  was  no 
reason  why  he  should  waste  his  time  with  her 
when  he  felt  that  he  could  be  employed  quite  as 
agreeably  and  perhaps  more  profitably  at  home. 
It  was  simply  to  make  sure  that  things  were  going 
on  satisfactorily  that  he  went  at  last  to  Woodside 
Farm,  and  not  from  any  particular  desire  to  see  her. 
Then,  to  his  surprise,  Margaret  had  appeared. 
She  took  his  breath  away,  and  being  a  young 
man  of  intelligence,  he  saw  at  once  that  she  and 
117 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

her  father  were  altogether  of  a  different  class  from 
that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  He  wondered 
how  she  came  to  be  there.  How  her  father  came 
to  be  there,  and  what  had  induced  him  to  marry 
Mrs.  Vincent  and  settle  down  at  the  farm.  "  There 
must  be  a  screw  loose  somewhere/'  he  thought;  but 
what  would  a  dozen  screws  matter  to  him  if  only — 
for  it  promptly  occurred  to  him  —  he  could  mar- 
ry Margaret?  The  thought  intoxicated  him;  she 
was  young  and  beautiful ;  she  made  the  blood 
dance  through  his  veins  as  it  had  not  done  since 
he  was  two-and-twenty,  when  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  the  daughter  of  a  dentist  who  had  thrown  him 
over  for  the  purser  of  an  Atlantic-going  steamer: 
and  that  young  lady  had  not  been  a  patch  on  this 
one.  With  a  wife  like  Margaret,  he  told  himself, 
there  was  no  knowing  what  might  be  done,  to  what 
heights  he  might  rise  in  these  democratic  days. 
He  looked  at  Hannah's  face;  it  was  faded  and 
somewhat  weather-beaten;  there  were  lines  of 
temper  on  it — they  would  be  deeper  by-and-by; 
the  hard  gray-blue  of  her  eyes  chilled  him,  her 
tightly  pulled  back  hair  repelled  him,  her  manner 
suggested  that  time  would  make  her  shrewish. 
Life  with  her  would  mean  a  clean,  well-ordered 
home  of  a  sort,  but  hardly  a  gay  and  pleasant 
dove-cot.  Luckily,  he  had  not  in  any  way  com- 
mitted himself;  he  had  merely  been  extremely 
polite  and  friendly,  and  entered  upon  that  stage 
118 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

which,  in  the  class  just  below  the  one  he  considered 
to  be  his  own,  was  known  as  "walking-out" — 
a  sort  of  prelude  to  getting  engaged.  But  he  had 
not  said  a  single  word  of  love;  he  had  looked  at 
her,  it  is  true,  but  a  cat  may  look  at  a  king.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  he  could  never  manage  to 
make  any  impression  upon  Margaret;  at  best,  she 
was  only  civil  to  him;  she  spoke  as  little  as  pos- 
sible, and  generally  vanished  soon  after  his  arrival ; 
there  were  times  when  he  felt  her  manner  to  be  a 
little  contemptuous ;  still,  he  determined  not  to  bind 
himself  in  another  direction  till  he  made  sure  that 
she  was  impossible.  He  looked  in  the  glass  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  by  no  means 
bad-looking;  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  fairness 
of  his  mustache  he  considered  to  be  strong  points  to 
the  good  in  his  appearance. 

"She  is  a  little  young,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and 
doesn't  know  what's  what  yet.  A  girl  isn't  up  to 
much  till  she  is  two-and-twenty.  She's  had  time 
then  to  look  round  at  home,  and  to  see  that  there 
mayn't  always  be  room  for  her  in  it.  Moreover, 
she  knows  then  when  a  fellow  is  worth  having, 
and  doesn't  give  herself  so  many  airs  as  she  does 
at  first.  I  wonder  if  my  dress  is  quite  up  to  the 
mark?  She's  got  a  quick  eye,  and  she's  been  to 
London,  and  they  always  think  they  know  a  good 
deal  after  that."  He  considered  this  point  very 
carefully,  with  the  result  that  the  next  time  he  went 
119 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

to  Hasleraere  he  wore  drab  spats  over  his  by  no 
means  ill-made  shoes;  a  white  handkerchief,  fine 
and  slightly  scented  with  white  rose,  showed  it- 
self from  his  breast-pocket,  and  in  his  hand  he 
carried  a  crop,  for  he  had  determined  that  instead 
of  driving  he  would  ride  to  the  farm.  It  would 
look  more  spirited,  he  thought,  to  trot  beside  the 
moor,  past  the  church,  along  the  road,  and  down 
the  green  lane,  arriving  with  a  clatter  at  the  porch, 
than  to  appear  in  even  the  neatest  of  traps.  There 
was  a  decent  mare  to  be  hired  at  "  The  Brown 
Bear  "  at  Haslemere.  He  wrote  to  the  landlord, 
and  felt  quite  excited  at  an  imaginary  picture  of 
himself  and  the  effect  it  would  have  on  Margaret. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XII 


MR.  VINCENT  had  arranged  that  while  he  was 
away  his  two-hundred-a-year  should  be  paid  to 
Margaret.  The  five  hundred  pounds  legacy,  of 
which  he  had  spoken,  would,  he  knew,  be  more 
than  sufficient  for  his  travelling  needs.  The 
payment  of  the  little  income  to  Margaret  had  been 
Mrs.  Vincent's  suggestion.  "  You  see,  I  shall 
not  want  it,"  she  said,  "and  it  will  be  better  for 
her  to  have  it.  Then  if  anything  happens  while 
you  are  gone  it  will  be  there,  and  if  not  she'll  save 
it,  and  when  you  come  back  we'll  do  something 
with  it."  Margaret  was  only  told  of  this  after 
her  father's  departure. 

"You'll  feel  quite  rich,"  her  mother  said. 

"Why,  yes,"  Margaret  answered,  and  in  truth 
it  seemed  like  a  fortune  laid  at  her  feet.  "You 
and  I  might  go  a-travelling,  mother  darling." 

But  Mrs.  Vincent  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  better 
at  home,"  she  replied;  "travelling  is  not  for  old 
people." 

Then,  not  as  if  she  had  generated  the  thought 
in  her  own  mind,  but  as  if  it  had  come  stealing  to 
her  over  the  Surrey  hills  from  the  city  far  away, 
121 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Margaret  wondered  what  it  would  feel  like  to  go  to 
London  by  herself,  to  be  among  the  people  there,  to 
see  the  streets  and  hear  the  rumble  of  the  traffic, 
to  live  alone,  as  Miss  Hunstan  did,  in  white-and- 
blue  rooms  in  a  quaint  old  street  with  a  gray-haired 
woman  to  wait  on  her,  and,  above  all,  to  do  some- 
thing outside  in  the  open.  She  had  come  to  see 
that  there  was  a  high-road  through  the  world 
along  which  people  worked  their  way.  She  had 
been  thinking  of  it  a  great  deal  lately.  Moreover, 
the  fascination  of  the  theatre  had  laid  hold  of  her. 
All  things  had  a  beginning,  she  thought ;  the  actress 
who  played  Constance  in  "  King  John,"  though  her 
tones  had  seemed  to  come  from  a  heart  that  had 
only  to  feel  keenly  to  produce  them,  had  once  made 
a  beginning.  What  a  wonderful  thing  it  must 
be  to  make  anything,  or  to  do  anything  that 
was  counted  in  the  world  1  If  only  she  had  been 
older,  or  had  talked  it  over  with  her  father,  or  if 
some  strange  and  hard  necessity  were  to  overtake 
her  and  drive  her  onward,  she  felt  as  if  hidden 
capacities  might  develop  themselves  and  strength 
come  to  her.  It  was  only  a  dream,  of  course,  but 
the  dream  was  a  refuge  from  Hannah,  and  a  retreat 
to  which  she  could  hurry  at  will;  it  was  even  better 
than  books.  After  all,  it  was  only  the  things  that 
people  had  heard  and  seen  and  thought  that  were 
gathered  up  and  put  into  books ;  but  if  she  went  out 
into  the  world  she  might  get  them  at  first-hand  for 

122 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

herself.  "I  want  to  know  things/'  she  had  said 
to  her  father  that  morning  in  London;  "I  want 
to  know  things,  and  to  do  them/'  she  cried  to  herself, 
one  afternoon  in  the  woods,  and  amid  the  stillness 
of  the  coming  summer  at  Chidhurst.  Since  her 
father  went  away  she  had  drawn  very  close  to 
nature  beneath  the  great  elms  of  her  cathedral. 
The  mysteries  and  immensities  about  her  seemed 
to  whisper  secrets  concerning  the  world  that  she 
longed  to  understand. 

Nearly  six  weeks  since  her  father  went,  and, 
except  for  the  coming  and  going  of  Mr.  Garratt, 
life  had  virtually  stood  still  at  Woodside  Farm. 
"If  only  Sir  George  Stringer  would  arrive,"  she 
said  to  herself  one  afternoon,  "  I  should  feel  as  if  it 
were  the  beginning  of  a  new  chapter."  She  had 
not  ventured  to  look  at  the  house  on  the  hill  for 
the  last  day  or  two,  but  she  would  go  now,  she 
thought — something  told  her  there  would  be  news. 
"I  will  go  this  very  minute/'  she  cried,  "and  then 
if  there  is  no  sign  I  will  wait  a  whole  week." 

She  went  quickly  through  a  copse  and  growth 
of  underwood,  over  a  ditch  into  the  fields,  across 
the  fields  and  out  by  the  church  to  the  road.  She 
saw  in  a  moment  that  the  gates  of  the  house  were 
open  and  her  heart  gave  a  bound.  He  was  coming, 
perhaps  he  had  come  already,  and  would  know 
something  about  Tom  Carringford.  She  went 
a  few  steps  up  the  drive,  between  the  larches  and 
123 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

the  fir-trees  with  the  little  monthly  rose  bushes  in 
front,  and  wondered  if  she  dared  go  up  to  the  house 
and  ask  for  him — her  father's  old  friend  would 
hardly  take  it  amiss.  Then  she  met  the  handy 
man  who  looked  after  the  garden.  Sir  George 
had  come  the  night  before,  he  told  her — come  for 
a  week,  but  he  was  out ;  drove  away  in  a  fly, 
to  see  some  of  the  country  round-about,  most 
likely. 

Margaret  went  out  of  the  gate  with  a  smile  on 
her  lips,  to  find  herself  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Garratt 
on  his  steed.  He  was  ambling  past  cautiously, 
not  in  the  least  expecting  to  see  her,  but  the  mo- 
ment he  did  he  pulled  himself  up  and  tried  to  look 
smart  and  unconcerned.  She  laughed  and  nodded 
to  him  because  she  was  so  happy,  and  because 
it  amused  her  to  see  Hannah's  sweetheart  riding 
by  supremely  satisfied  with  himself,  and  his  spats, 
and  his  crop,  and  bowler  hat.  He  tugged  at  his 
mustache  when  he  saw  Margaret,  and  lifted  his  hat 
with  a  little  flourish. 

"Why,  Mr.  Garratt,"  she  said,  "I  didn't  know 
you!" 

He  was  delighted  at  her  manner;  he  took  it  as 
a  tribute  to  his  improved  appearance ;  he  held  his 
reins  tightly  and  swayed  about  a  little  in  his  sad- 
dle, as  if  his  steed  were  restive. 

"Riding  is  a  little  more  lively,  Miss  Vincent, 
than  tooling  along  in  a  trap;  of  course,  if  there's 
124 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

some  one  beside  you  it's  different."     He  tried  to 
put  significance  into  his  tone. 

"You  should  get  Hannah  to  meet  you  at  the 
station  in  the  brown  cart/'  she  said,  wickedly, 
"and  drive  you  back." 

"  I'm  not  sure  whether  it  would  be  an  enjoyment 
or  not,  Miss  Vincent."  She  passed  him  while  he 
spoke,  and  stood  by  the  gate  that  opened  into  the 
field. 

"I'm  sure  it  would,"  she  answered,  as  she  undid 
the  latch.  "We  shall  meet  presently,"  and  she 
gave  him  a  little  nod  of  dismissal.  "I'm  going 
this  way." 

In  a  moment  he  had  dismounted  and  stood  by 
her  side.  "I  can  lead  the  mare  across  the  grass 
and  have  the  pleasure  of  escorting  you  at  the  same 
time,"  he  said,  quickly.  They  stood  looking  at 
each  other  for  a  moment,  and  the  intolerance  that 
she  always  felt  for  him  came  back. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  going  home  yet,"  she 
said,  "or  that  I'm  going  back  this  way,  after  all/' 

"Any  way  will  do  for  me,  I'm  not  in  a  hurry. 
We  might  have  a  little  talk  about  London,  and 
the  theatres,"  he  added,  with  a  sudden  inspiration. 
"Miss  Barton  is  rather  strict,  you  know." 

"Hannah  was  brought  up  to  think  the  theatre 
a  wicked  place,  so  she  is  quite  right  not  to  go  to  one, 
and  to  disapprove  of  people  who  do — my  father 
doesn't  think  it  wrong." 

125 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Neither  do  I,  Miss  Vincent/'  They  were 
walking  across  the  field  by  this  time,  he  leading 
the  mare,  and  she  taking  the  narrow  foot-path; 
"  in  fact,  though  I  wouldn't  like  to  tell  Miss  Barton 
so,  I  am  very  fond  of  it.  Why,  when  I  was  up 
for  a  week  a  month  ago  I  went  four  times."  He 
looked  at  her  knowingly,  as  if  to  establish  a  con- 
fidence. "  I  went  to  see  '  The  Lovers'  Lesson ' — a 
lovely  piece,  Miss  Vincent ;  it  made  one  feel " — 
Mr.  Garratt  lowered  his  voice  at  this  point — "  what 
real  love  was.  Oh,  I  say,  there's  a  stile  to  this  next 
field ;  I  didn't  know  that.  1  shall  have  to  take  the 
mare  over."  He  put  his  foot  into  the  stirrup, 
vaulted  into  the  saddle,  and  went  over  with  the 
air  of  a  huntsman  taking  a  five-barred  gate;  then 
dismounted  and  waited  for  Margaret.  "Allow 
me  to  give  you  a  hand,"  he  said,  and  squeezed  her 
fingers  as  she  stepped  down. 

"Please  don't,"  she  said,  haughtily. 

"I'd  do  it  again,"  he  said,  "to  see  the  color  come 
like  that;  you  don't  know  what  you  make  one 
feel  like." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  know.  Be  good  enough  to  re- 
member that  you  come  to  see  Hannah." 

"  But  it  isn't  Hannah  I  want  to  come  and  see." 

She  turned  upon  him  quickly.  "It  is  only 
Hannah  who  wishes  to  see  you,  understand  that." 

"Oh,  I  say,  what  a  spitfire!  Look  here,  Miss 
Vincent,  don't  be  angry.  You  and  I  ought  to 
126 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

be  friends,  you  know;  and  1  don't  mean  any 
harm." 

After  all,  he  was  only  vulgar,  Margaret  thought. 
"  I'm  sure  you  don't  mean  any  harm — "  she  said, 
though  not  very  graciously. 

He  felt  that  it  would  be  a  good  move  to  get  back 
to  neutral  subjects. 

"  Do  you  know  the  gent  who  has  taken  the  house 
by  the  church?"  he  asked.  "You  seemed  to  be 
taking  an  interest  in  him." 

"  He  is  a  friend  of  my  father's,"  she  condescended 
to  inform  him. 

"He  must  be  a  swell — he's  a  'Sir/  anyhow. 
You  know,  I've  got  an  idea  that  you  and  your 
father  are  swells,  too.  Why,  you  and  Miss  Bar- 
ton are  as  different  as  chalk  from  cheese — there 
isn't  any  looking  at  her  when  you  are  there." 

Margaret  walked  on  without  a  word,  but  he 
followed  her  meekly;  it  was  all  the  same  to  Mr. 
Garratt. 

"You're  a  downright  beauty,  that's  what  I 
think.  I  say!  There's  Hannah  standing  by  the 
porch,  looking  out,"  for  by  this  time  they  were 
within  half  a  field  and  the  length  of  the  garden 
from  the  house.  "She  will  be  wild  when  she  sees 
me  walking  with  you,  you  know.  Now,  then," 
he  added,  touching  his  own  shoulder  with  the  crop 
in  his  hand  as  she  made  a  sign  of  impatience, 
"don't  be  disagreeable  again,  there's  a  dear  girl. 
127 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Let's  talk  about  the  theatre;  you  like  that,  you 
know,  and  we've  only  got  five  minutes  left.  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  ought  to  have  seen — '  The  School 
for  Scandal/  and  Miss  Hunstan  in  it." 

"Oh,  did  you  see  her!"  Margaret  exclaimed, 
and  took  a  step  nearer  to  him. 

Hannah,  watching  from  the  porch,  saw  it.  A 
deep  pink  came  to  her  cheeks  and  to  the  tip  of  her 
nose.  Some  one  in  the  best  parlor,  looking  through 
the  little  lattice  window,  saw  it,  too,  and  drew  con- 
clusions. 

"Oh,  you  want  to  know  about  her,  do  you?" 
Mr.  Garratt  said,  triumphantly.  "Now,  why  is 
that?" 

"I  met  her  at  a  friend's  house  when  I  was  in 
London  with  father." 

"Did  you?  Well,  I  wouldn't  tell  Hannah  that 
if  I  were  you;  she'd  ask  them  to  put  up  a  prayer 
in  chapel  for  you." 

"Tell  me  about  Miss  Hunstan  —  she  played 
Lady  Teazle — " 

"Oh,  you've  heard  about  Lady  Teazle,  have  you? 
Well,  she  was  just  splendid.  You  should  have 
seen  her  chaff  that  old  husband  of  hers,  and  the 
way  she  held  her  head  when  the  screen  fell.  A 
friend  of  mine  was  over  in  New  York  when  she 
first  came  out  — fifteen  years  ago,  now;  getting 
on,  isn't  it?" 

"What  did  she  do  first?" 
128 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

"  She  walked  on,  holding  up  the  train  of  a  prin- 
cess, but  she  did  it  with  such  an  air  the  young 
fellows  used  to  go  in  just  to  look  at  her.  Then 
Dawson  Farley  went  over  there  with  an  English 
company  and  spotted  her,  I  suppose,  and  gave  her 
a  small  part  to  play.  She  was  just  about  your 
age,"  Mr.  Garratt  added,  significantly.  "People 
said  they  were  going  to  be  married,  and  there  was 
a  lot  of  talk  about  it,  but  it  didn't  come  off,  and 
she  went  about  the  States  acting,  and  became  a 
swell,  and  he  became  a  swell  over  here.  Now  she's 
over  here,  too,  starring  as  Lady  Teazle.  I  wonder 
if  she  ever  sees  Dawson  Farley?" 

"Oh  yes.  I  met  them  both  when  I  was  in  Lon- 
don; he  said  they  were  old  friends." 

"You  seem  to  have  done  a  great  deal  on  that 
visit  of  yours,  and  it  only  lasted  a  sandwiched 
night,  I  think?"  he  said,  hurrying  after  her,  but 
handicapped  by  having  to  lead  his  horse. 

"Did  you  see  Miss  Hunstan  in  anything  else?" 
Margaret  asked,  taking  no  notice  of  his  remark. 

"I  saw  her  once  in  a  mixture  performance,  got 
up  for  a  charity — actors  and  actresses  showing 
off  in  little  bits,  you  know." 

"What  did  she  do?" 

"  She  recited  a  poem  by  an  American  chap  called 
Field.  I  dare  say  you  know  all  about  him,  being 
fond  of  poetry?" 

"No,  1  never  heard  of  him." 
9  129 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

Mr.  Garratt  was  triumphant.  "  Really  1  I 
bought  his  poems  and  recited  one  of  them  myself 
at  an  entertainment  we  got  up  for  the  new  chapel 
at  Midhurst— " 

"Oh!" 

"I  might  lend  you  the  book,"  but  she  made  no 
answer.  "  I  take  a  lively  interest  in  most  things," 
he  went  on,  quickly,  for  he  saw  that  their  talk  must 
necessarily  come  to  an  end  in  a  moment,  "and  I 
should  very  much  enjoy  getting  a  little  more  con- 
versation with  you  than  I  do  at  present.  I  think 
we  take  a  similar  view  of  a  good  many  things. 
Now,  Miss  Barton  and  1  take  a  different  one.  To 
tell  the  truth,  I'm  not  overfond  of  chapel  going  and 
psalm  singing.  1  believe  in  seeing  a  bit  of  life, 
and  London's  the  place  to  see  it  in.  I  say  " — he 
went  up  nearer  to  her — "I  wish  we  were  there  to- 
gether, don't  you,  eh?"  and  he  gave  her  a  little 
nudge. 

She  stopped  and  flushed  with  rage.  "No,  I 
do  not,"  she  answered,  "and  you  will  not  touch 
me  again,  Mr.  Garratt;  I  dislike  people  who  are 
too  familiar."  She  rubbed  her  elbow  as  if  it  had 
been  stung,  and  strode  on. 

"Well,  you've  got  a  plainer  way  of  speaking 
than  any  other  young  lady  I've  ever  met  in  my 
life,"  he  said,  catching  her  up,  "but  I'll  tell  you 
something  before  we  part — there  isn't  anything 
in  the  world  I  wouldn't  do  for  you.  Perhaps  you 
130 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

think  I'm  a  little  free  in  my  manner,  but  we  can't 
all  be  as  high  and  mighty  as  you  are — we're  not 
made  that  way,  you  know." 

Margaret  went  through  the  garden  gate  without 
a  word.  Mr.  Garratt  had  to  stand  still  and  hold  his 
horse.  "  Hannah  1"  Margaret  called.  He  looked 
alarmed,  as  if  he  thought  she  might  be  going  to 
tell  tales.  "You  had  better  come — Mr.  Garratt  is 
here." 

Hannah  came  quickly  along  the  garden,  her 
face  very  red,  and  its  expression  by  no  means  a 
pleasant  one. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Barton?"  Mr.  Garratt 
shouted,  pleasantly.  "I  met  Miss  Vincent  on  the 
hill  and  led  the  mare  across  the  fields  for  the 
pleasure  of  her  company." 

"Was  it  an  appointment?"  she  asked,  sharply. 

"Not  on  her  side,"  he  said,  by  way  of  a  little 
joke — "and  not  on  mine,"  he  added,  quickly,  for 
Margaret  had  stopped,  and  there  seemed  to  be  an 
explanation  on  her  lips;  "only  an  unexpected 
pleasure.  Shall  I  take  the  mare  round  to  the  stable, 
Miss  Barton?" 

"Jim!"  Hannah  called  at  the  top  of  her  voice, 
and  a  boy  appeared  from  one  of  the  side  buildings. 
"Come  and  take  Mr.  Garratt's  horse — and  give  it 
a  feed  of  corn,"  she  added,  for  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  her  that  she  was  not  making  a  very  amiable 
appearance  before  her  supposed  suitor.  "Mar- 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

garet,  you  had  better  go  into  the  house;  there  is 
some  one  with  mother,  and  she  wants  you." 

Margaret  was  half-way  down  a  side  path  on  the 
left,  but  she  turned  in  an  instant,  went  quickly 
up  the  garden,  and  vanished  through  the  porch. 

"  What  was  she  up  to?"  Mr.  Garratt  asked  Han- 
nah, as  they  walked  on  beside  the  yew  hedge,  re- 
luctantly on  his  part,  but  she  was  a  dominant  per- 
son, and  not  easy  to  thwart.  "Going  to  meet 
any  one?" 

"  Oh,  she  was  only  taking  herself  off  to  that  wood 
up  there — that's  what  she  does  on  Sunday  mornings 
instead  of  going  to  church  like  a  Christian  and 
walking  home  with  mother,"  Hannah  answered, 
resentfully,  for  if  Margaret  had  attended  to  her 
religious  duties  properly,  she  reflected,  it  would  not 
have  been  necessary  for  Mr.  Garratt  to  walk  back 
beside  Mrs.  Vincent.  "  In  these  days,  Mr.  Garratt, 
people  don't  seem  to  be  taken  with  the  thought  of 
going  to  heaven,  as  they  used,  and  they  are  not 
afraid  of  eternal  punishment  as  they  should  be." 

"Well,  you  see,  Miss  Barton,  according  to  them 
there  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  dying,  and  the 
only  thing  to  do  is  to  make  the  best  of  what  they've 
got." 

"Mr.  Garratt,  I  don't  like  the  way  you're  talking ; 
it's  not  a  reverent  spirit." 

"It's  not  meant  to  be  anything  else,  I  assure 
you,  Miss  Barton,"  he  answered,  in  an  apologetic 
132 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

tone,  tapping  his  right  leg  with  the  crop  which  he 
still  held  in  his  hand.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  saw 
his  new  bowler  hat,  and  the  white  handkerchief 
in  his  breast-pocket,  and  her  manner  softened. 

"When  do  you  think  of  settling  in  Guildford, 
Mr.  Garratt?"  she  asked. 

"I  shall  be  over  there  in  another  six  weeks," 
he  answered ;  "  they're  painting  the  window-frames 
now.  1  hope  you  and  Mrs.  Vincent  will  come  over 
some  day,"  he  added,  after  a  pause.  "I  should 
like  to  have  your  opinion  of  the  place." 

"I  shall  be  willing  to  give  it  to  you,"  she  said, 
demurely,  and  waited  expectantly,  but  he  said 
nothing  more.  He  was  thinking  of  Margaret 
again. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  Vincent's  people — 
has  he  got  any  besides  this  brother  out  in  Aus- 
tralia?" he  asked. 

"He's  never  spoken  of  them — not  even  of  the 
brother,  till  last  year.  I  must  tell  you  frankly, 
Mr.  Garratt,  that  I  never  liked  him.  He  is  a  man 
who  has  rejected  religion,  and  brought  up  his 
child  to  do  the  same." 

"  You  know,  it  strikes  me  somehow  that  they  are 
swells,"  Mr.  Garratt  said,  confidentially,  "who 
have  done  something  shady;  or  perhaps  he  did 
something  shady  himself,  there's  never  any  telling. 
It  may  be  that  he  was  suddenly  afraid  of  being 
found  out,  and  has  taken  himself  off  altogether. 
133 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

You've  only  his  word  for  it  that  he's  got  a  brother, 
I  suppose?" 

Hannah  looked  at  him,  dismayed.  This  idea 
would  cover  many  odd  feelings  and  instincts  that 
she  had  encouraged  in  regard  to  Mr.  Vincent. 
That  he  should  be  some  sort  of  criminal  in  dis- 
guise seemed  feasible  enough  when  she  remembered 
his  opinions,  and  that  he  should  desert  his  wife 
and  daughter  would  be  a  natural  outcome  of  them. 

"He  had  letters  with  the  Australian  postmark/' 
she  said,  remembering  this  proof  of  her  step-father's 
veracity. 

"They  might  be  managed,"  Mr.  Garratt  an- 
swered, in  a  knowing  manner  that  added  to  Han- 
nah's consternation. 

"  There's  some  one  that  knows  him  come  to  see 
mother  now.  I  was  looking  for  Margaret,  and 
didn't  stay  to  hear  his  name." 

"It's  probably  the  gent  who's  taken  the  house 
on  the  hill;  we  might  go  and  see  what  he's  like," 
Mr.  Garratt  said,  quickly,  and  turned  towards  the 
house,  elated  at  the  thought  of  meeting  on  terms 
of  more  or  less  equality  some  one  whom  in  the 
ordinary  course  he  would  have  had  to  treat  with 
the  respect  due  to  a  superior. 

But  Sir  George  Stringer  had  been  and  gone.  He 
was  just  going  when  Margaret  returned. 

"  I  drove  over  for  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  your 
134 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

mother  and  of  seeing  you  again/'  he  had  said. 
"You  were  evidently  having  a  most  interesting 
conversation  as  you  came  across  the  field — I  hope 
it  has  not  been  interrupted,"  he  looked  at  her  curi- 
ously, and  saw  the  color  rush  to  her  face. 

"It's  only  Mr.  Garratt,"  Mrs.  Vincent  explained; 
"he  often  comes  over  from  Guildford  to  see  us." 

"I've  no  doubt  he  does,"  Sir  George  answered. 
Margaret  had  no  courage  to  contradict  the  mis- 
take, and  Mrs.  Vincent  did  not  see  it.  "  You  would 
have  seen  me  before,"  he  went  on,  "  but  I  have  had 
a  sister  ill  at  Folkestone.  I  fear  1  can't  stay  any 
longer  now,  but  I  shall  come  again  in  a  day  or  two. " 

Margaret  walked  to  the  gate  with  him,  confused 
and  mortified,  but  she  made  an  effort  to  set  matters 
right. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  here — " 

"Don't  apologize,"  he  said,  good-naturedly. 
"I'm  going  to  stay  a  fortnight  at  least,  and  you'll 
see  me  very  often.  Are  you  and  your  mother 
here  alone?" 

"There  is  Hannah—" 

"Oh  yes,  the  sharp -faced  woman  who  let  me 
in,  I  suppose?  She  keeps  an  eye  upon  you.  I 
saw  her  in  the  garden  watching  your  approach 
with  a  great  deal  of  anxiety  and  not  much  ap- 
proval." The  fly  had  been  waiting  in  the  lane 
instead  of  by  the  porch.  He  got  in  before  he  held 
out  his  hand. 

135 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Sir  George,  1  want  to  tell  you — "  she  began, 
and  stopped,  for  it  was  so  difficult. 

"I  know,"  and  he  laughed  again.  "By-the- 
way,  I  dare  say  you'll  have  Carringford  over  next 
week;  he's  going  to  Hindhead;  he  said  he  should 
come  and  see  you,  and  look  me  up  on  the  way. 
Good-bye,"  and  in  a  moment  he  had  started.  She 
stood  watching  him  almost  in  despair.  Suppose 
he  told  Tom  Carringford  about  Mr.  Garratt!  Oh, 
but  when  he  came  again — he  said  just  now  that 
he  should  come  often — she  would  explain.  Only 
it  was  such  a  difficult  thing  to  explain,  it  wanted 
so  much  courage,  and  why  should  it  matter  to 
Mr.  Carringford?  Perhaps,  too,  it  would  be  bet- 
ter to  leave  it  alone,  and  he  would  forget  about 
Mr.  Garratt;  besides,  Mr.  Walford,  the  clergyman, 
would  be  sure  to  call  on  Sir  George,  and  if  by  any 
chance  he  mentioned  Woodside  Farm  he  would 
probably  tell  him  that  Mr.  Garratt  was  walking 
out  with  Hannah — he  was  always  at  church  with 
her  on  Sunday  mornings.  She  remembered  joy- 
fully that  Sir  George  would  see  them  there  to- 
gether, and  in  a  little  place  like  Chidhurst  every- 
thing was  known  and  talked  about. 

"Good  Heavens!  how  lovely  she  is,"  Sir  George 
thought  as  he  drove  away,  "  and  what  a  pity  that 
she  should  be  left  to  those  two  women!"  For  he 
and  Mrs.  Vincent  had  spent  an  awkward  ten 
minutes,  not  knowing  in  the  least  what  to  say  to 
136 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

each  other,  and  he  had  naturally  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  she  was  a  handsome  but  quite  ordinary 
woman  of  her  class.  "  And  then  the  young  trades- 
man, with  the  crisp,  curling  hair  showing  under 
the  brim  of  his  bowler  hat,  and  the  look  of  a  bounder. 
Vincent  ought  to  be  shot  for  leaving  her  to  him." 
It  was  no  business  of  his,  of  course,  but  it  vexed 
him  so  much  that  he  felt  as  if  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  pay  another  visit  to  the  fann. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XIII 

MR.  GARRATT  hired  the  mare  on  which  he  had 
made  so  successful  an  appearance  by  the  month, 
and  determined  to  enjoy  his  long  rides  across  the 
beautiful  Surrey  country.  He  thought  matters 
well  over,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would 
be  as  well  to  keep  up  an  appearance  of  pa3Tiig 
attention  to  Hannah  lest  he  should  lose  the  bird  in 
the  hand  before  he  had  made  sure  of  catching  the 
one  in  the  bush.  But  he  found  it  difficult,  for  her 
voice  set  his  teeth  on  edge*  and  her  conversation, 
which  was  always  harking  round  to  evangelical 
subjects,  and  hits  at  her  step-father  and  Margaret, 
irritated  him  till  there  were  times  when  he  could 
have  shaken  her.  He  was  fully  alive  to  the  charms 
of  the  property  that  would  one  day  be  hers,  and  he 
saw  her  thrifty  qualities  clearly  enough;  but  this 
was  not  all  a  man  wanted,  he  told  himself.  He 
wanted  besides  a  woman  he  could  love  and  look 
at,  and  be  proud  of,  and  whose  possession  other 
men  would  envy  him. 

"  If  Margaret  only  showed  a  little  common-sense," 
he  thought,  "she  might  be  riding  beside  me  two 
or  three  times  a  week.  She  would  look  stunning 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

in  a  habit,  and  I  wouldn't  mind  standing  it — and 
the  nag,  too.  People  would  sit  up  a  bit  if  one  day 
they  saw  us  trotting  through  Guildford  together; 
as  for  Hannah,  she  isn't  fit  to  lick  her  boots." 
Even  in  a  worldly  sense  he  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Margaret  would  suit  him  better. 
"She'd  pull  one  up/'  he  thought,  "for  I'm  certain 
she's  a  swell,  though  she  mayn't  know  it  herself, 
while  t'other  would  keep  one  where  one  is  for  the 
rest  of  one's  days."  He  touched  up  the  mare  in 
his  excitement,  and  went  by  the  church  and  tow- 
ards the  green  lane  in  a  canter. 

Sir  George  Stringer,  hidden  behind  the  greenery 
of  his  garden,  saw  him  pass.  "That  young 
bounder  is  going  after  Vincent's  girl  again," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  I'd  rather  marry  her  myself 
than  let  him  have  her — not  that  she'd  look  at  a 
grizzly  old  buffer  five  years  her  father's  senior. 
I'll  tell  Hilda  Lakeman  about  it;  perhaps  she 
will  ask  the  girl  there  and  get  the  nonsense  out  of 
her."  He  went  up  to  town  the  next  day,  and 
made  a  point  of  lunching  at  the  Embankment, 
and  of  sitting  an  hour  in  the  flower-scented  room 
afterwards;  but  Mrs.  Lakeman  was  not  as  ready 
to  help  in  the  matter  as  he  had  imagined  she  would 
be. 

"Gerald's  family  has  come  to  a  pretty  pass," 
she  said,  with  contemptuous  amusement.  "I'd 
do  anything  for  him,  dear  old  boy;  but  if  his  girl 
139 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

is  in  love  with  this  young  man,  what  would  be  the 
good  of  bringing  her  to  town?  I  couldn't  under- 
take the  responsibility  of  it,  I  couldn't  indeed,  old 
friend." 

"Did  little  Margaret  seem  fond  of  her  trades- 
man?" Lena  asked,  sitting  down  on  a  low  stool 
near  her  mother  and  looking  up  at  Sir  George. 

"Well,  I  saw  them  get  closer  together  as  they 
crossed  the  field,  and  loiter  out  of  sight  behind  the 
hedge  before  they  came  into  the  garden,  and  she 
blushed  when  she  spoke  of  him." 

"Dear  little  Margaret,"  purred  Lena,  "why 
shouldn't  she  marry  him  and  be  happy?  It  would 
be  far  better  than  interfering.  I  must  tell  Tom 
about  it;  he'll  be  so  amused." 

"  I  wish  Tom  would  marry  her,"  Sir  George  said, 
fervently. 

"  He's  coming  to-day;  I'll  tell  him  what  you  say." 

"  Then  you'll  mull  it.  I  shall  have  to  invite  him 
to  Chidhurst,  I  think." 

"I  think  you  had  better  invite  us,"  said  Mrs. 
Lakeman.  "I  should  like  to  see  Mrs.  Gerald." 

"  Of  course  I  will.  You  must  come  for  a  week- 
end." 

"Later,  before  we  go  to  Scotland  in  August," 
Mrs.  Lakeman  answered.  "Tom  is  going  with 
us,"  she  added,  and  looked  at  Lena  out  of  the 
tail  of  her  eye. 

Lena  rose  and  sauntered  towards  the  curtains. 
140 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"  He  is  coming  at  four/'  she  said,  in  a  low  tone. 
"I  think  I  will  go  and  wait  for  him." 

Then  Mrs.  Lakeman  put  on  her  most  dramatic 
manner,  restrained,  but  full  of  feeling.  "George 
Stringer/'  she  said,  in  a  thick,  harsh  voice,  "I 
loved  Gerald  Vincent  once,  and  would  do  anything 
in  the  world  for  him,  but  I  can't  give  away — even 
to  his  girl — my  own  child's  happiness.  You  won't 
interfere,  will  you,  old  friend?  You  won't  throw 
Margaret  Vincent  in  his  way?" 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  slowly.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"May  God  forgive  me  for  betraying  my  child's 
secret " — she  managed  to  put  a  heartfelt  tone  into 
her  words,  and  was  quite  pleased  with  it — "but 
I  think,  for  I  can't  give  her  away  more  explicitly 
than  that — I  think  she  loves  Tom.' 

"He  hasn't  proposed?" 

"Not  yet.  But  he's  devoted  to  her.  He  sees 
her  every  day  of  his  life,  does  everything  we  do, 
goes  everywhere  we  go.  He  can't  live  without 
her,"  she  said,  with  a  little,  crooked  smile;  "it 
hasn't  yet  occurred  to  him  that  the  end  must  be 
the  only  one  for  two  children  who  love  each  other 
— but  it  will." 

Sir  George  looked  at  her  and  hesitated. 
"  Humph  !  He's  very  well  off?" 

"Fairly  well  off,"  she  answered,  with  a  gleam  in 
141 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

her  blue  eyes.  "That  doesn't  matter  in  the  least," 
she  went  on,  in  an  off-hand  manner.  "  But  I  can't 
play  with  my  child's  happiness,  George,  and  I 
love  the  boy  and  want  him  for  my  own." 

"All  right,  my  dear,  all  right,"  he  said,  and, 
seeing  it  was  expected  of  him,  he  took  both  her 
hands  in  his.  "  It's  always  better  not  to  interfere 
with  young  people."  And  so  Mrs.  Lakeman 
was  satisfied.  But  Sir  George  walked  away  with 
an  uneasy  feeling  at  the  back  of  his  head.  "I 
wonder  if  Hilda  Lakeman  was  lying/'  he  said  to 
himself.  "I  never  understand  her,  and  for  the 
life  of  me  I  can  never  quite  believe  in  her.  She 
is  tricky — tricky. " 

He  saw  Mr.  Garratt  at  Haslemere  station  waiting 
for  the  Guildford  train.  "I  should  like  to  punch 
his  head,"  he  thought,  but  this  desire,  of  course, 
made  no  difference  in  any  way. 

Meanwhile  matters  had  not  improved  at  Wood- 
side  Farm.  A  fierce  jealousy  was  raging  in  Han- 
nah's virgin  heart;  she  found  it  difficult  even  to 
keep  her  hands  off  Margaret.  "I  should  like  to 
box  your  ears  and  lock  you  up  in  your  room,"  she 
remarked,  spitefully,  when  she  could  no  longer 
control  herself. 

"Hannah,  for  shame!"  Mrs.  Vincent  said,  but 
even  her  efforts  to  keep  the  peace  seemed  some- 
what futile. 

"  It's  a  pity  you  didn't  go  to  Australia  with  your 
142 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

father/'  Hannah  went  on.  "You  are  only  in  the 
way  here." 

"Oh,  if  he  had  but  taken  me!"  Margaret  an- 
swered, fervently. 

"  Perhaps  he  didn't  want  you.  We've  only  his 
word  for  it  there  is  this  brother  in  Australia — 
and  what  is  that  worth,  I  should  like  to  know?" 

Mrs.  Vincent  looked  up  quickly  from  her  seat 
in  the  porch.  "I'll  have  you  speak  with  respect 
of  the  man  who  is  my  husband,"  she  said,  gently. 

"And  shame  to  you,  mother,  that  he  is.  He 
has  undermined  your  faith,  and  made  you  forget 
your  first  husband's  child." 

"Hannah,  you  will  be  silent,"  Mrs.  Vincent 
answered,  with  some  of  her  old  dignity.  "  We  have 
each  kept  to  our  own  way  of  thinking,  and  neither 
has  meddled  with  the  other.  And  I  have  never 
forgotten  your  father,  nor  what  was  due  to  him; 
but  one  has  to  make  the  best  of  life,  and  I  was  a 
young  woman  when  he  died." 

Something  in  her  voice  touched  Hannah.  "I 
know  that,  mother,"  she  said,  "and  I've  tried  to 
be  a  good  daughter  to  you,  and  if  sometimes  I've 
thought  I  didn't  get  my  share  of  what  you  felt, 
why  it's  only  natural  that  I  should  complain. 
What's  come  between  us  and  is  trying  to  come 
between  me  and  what  is  due  to  me,  is  the  artfulness 
that  has  got  no  principle  to  build  upon." 

"If  I  could  only  get  awayl  If  Mrs.  Lakeman 
143 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

would  ask  me  to  stay  with  her,  or  if  only  I  were 
like  Miss  Hunstan,  and  could  act  and  live  by  my- 
self till  father  comes  back/'  Margaret  said  to 
herself,  till  the  idea  took  deeper  and  deeper  hold 
upon  her. 

Why  shouldn't  she?  All  things  have  a  begin- 
ning, all  journeys  a  starting-point.  Mr.  Garratt 
had  told  her  how  Miss  Hunstan  had  begun  by 
holding  up  the  train  of  a  princess,  and  how  step 
by  step  she  had  reached  her  present  position.  She 
wished  she  could  see  Miss  Hunstan.  They  had 
only  met  once,  and  for  a  few  minutes,  but  she  had 
told  Margaret  that  she  would  like  to  see  her  again, 
and,  as  Tom  had  said,  some  people  were  never 
strangers.  She  longed  to  go  to  London  and  ask 
her  advice,  and  she  didn't  think  her  father  would 
be  angry  or  object  if  he  knew  all  that  was  going 
on  at  Woodside  Farm.  He  saw  no  harm  in  theatres, 
and  she  was  not  sophisticated  enough  to  under- 
stand the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  a  girl  who  was 
not  yet  twenty,  going  to  London  with  a  vague 
idea  that  she  could  "walk  on."  But  for  the  un- 
fortunate meeting  with  Mr.  Garratt  she  might  have 
consulted  Sir  George  Stringer.  She  had  hoped 
that  he  would  come  again,  but  day  after  day  went 
by  without  a  sign  of  him.  Half  a  dozen  times  she 
went  towards  his  house,  wondering  if  she  dared 
go  up  to  the  door  and  boldly  ask  for  him,  and  half 
a  dozen  times  her  courage  failed  her. 
144 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"If  he  doesn't  come  to-morrow,  I'll  make  myself 
go  to  him/'  Margaret  said,  when  nearly  a  fortnight 
had  gone  and  he  had  not  appeared ;  but  again  she 
hesitated.  Tom  Carringford  might  be  there,  and 
she  was  afraid  to  meet  him,  lest  he  should  have 
heard  of  Mr.  Garratt  and  be  different.  Then  a 
note  arrived  from  Sir  George.  He  was  going  back 
to  London,  was  starting  when  he  wrote,  and  re- 
gretted that  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  to  the 
farm  again;  he  hoped  to  do  so  later.  And  so  all 
hope  in  that  direction  vanished.  She  talked  to 
her  mother  one  day,  but  nothing  was  gained  by  it. 

"You  couldn't  go  to  London  by  yourself,  Mar- 
gey,"  Mrs.  Vincent  said.  "  I  was  never  strict  in 
my  heart  as  James  Barton  was,  or  as  Hannah  is, 
but  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  take  a  step  of  that  sort 
out  into  the  world  without  your  father's  approval." 

"  But,  mother  dear,  every  one  has  a  life  to  live, 
and  what  is  the  use  of  me  here?  Hannah  does  all 
the  farm  business,  and  there's  nothing  that  you 
want  me  to  do.  I  just  read  and  think  and  wait, 
and  I  don't  know  for  what,  unless  it's  for  father's 
return." 

"  It's  a  feeling  that  comes  to  us  all,"  Mrs.  Vincent 
answered.  "It's  the  fluttering  of  the  bird  trying 
to  leave  its  nest.  Better  wait  till  your  father  comes 
and  sets  you  on  your  way."  Then  Mrs.  Vincent 
shut  her  lips — those  beautiful,  curved  lips  of  hers 
— and  said  no  more.  All  her  thoughts  were  with 
145 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

the  man  in  Australia,  the  man  younger  than  her- 
self, at  whom  her  heart  clutched,  and  all  her  hours 
were  passed  in  a  dream  beside  him  till  she  had  no 
energy  left  for  the  actual  life  about  her,  but  let  it 
slip  by  unheeded. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XIV 

AT  last,  on  the  afternoon  of  a  day  when  Han- 
nah was  more  than  usually  unbearable,  Margaret 
determined  to  write  to  Miss  Hunstan,  asking  if 
she  might  really  go  and  see  her  if  she  went  to 
London.  This  was  in  her  own  room  over  the 
porch — a  little  room,  with  a  latticed  window  and  a 
seat  to  it,  and  an  old-fashioned  cupboard  let  into 
the  wall. 

"I  will  write  at  once,"  she  cried,  "this  very 
minute."  It  gave  her  some  comfort  even  to  see 
the  address  on  the  envelope,  for  she  wrote  that 
first.  When  the  letter  was  finished  she  felt  as  if 
she  had  taken  a  step  towards  freedom :  she  put  her 
elbows  on  the  table,  and,  resting  her  face  in  her 
hands,  tried  to  imagine  what  freedom  would  be 
like,  and  all  that  might  come  of  it.  And  then,  faint 
in  the  distance,  as  in  a  dream,  she  heard  the  sound 
of  a  horse's  hoofs.  They  were  coming  nearer  and 
nearer  along  the  lane.  She  rose  and  looked  out, 
but  it  was  not  possible  to  see  the  rider,  for  in  the 
summer-time  the  hedges  were  thick  and  green. 
It  was  June  now,  and  the  honeysuckle  and  travel- 
ler's joy  grew  high. 

147 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Mr.  Garratt  again,  I  suppose/'  she  said  to 
herself  in  despair.  The  sound  of  the  hoofs  came 
nearer ;  they  had  come  in  at  the  gate,  past  the  duck- 
pond,  and  the  outbuildings  and  the  hayricks,  and 
round  the  corner  of  the  garden.  They  stopped  at 
the  porch,  and  she  heard  the  boy  call  out,  "I'm 
coming,  sir,"  and  run  to  take  the  horse.  "He 
generally  rides  round  to  the  stable  himself/'  she 
thought ;  but  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  it  was 
Mr.  Garratt,  and  determined  to  keep  to  her  room 
all  the  afternoon.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  front 
door,  though  it  was  standing  wide  open,  and  at 
that  she  started,  for  Mr.  Garratt  never  knocked; 
he  just  walked  in  as  if  he  felt  that  one  day  he  would 
be  the  master.  Towsey  came  out  of  the  kitchen 
and  shuffled  through  the  living-place  to  the  porch. 

"Is  Mrs.  Vincent  at  home?"  Then  there  was 
no  doubt  at  all. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Carringford,"  Margaret  said  to  herself, 
and  her  heart  bounded  with  happiness. 

"  And  is  Miss  Vincent  at  home?"  she  heard  him 
further  ask,  as  Towsey  showed  him  into  the  best 
parlor.  "Yes!  Yes!  She  was  at  home/'  she 
thought,  and  danced  a  fan-fan  round  her  room ;  but 
she  stopped  suddenly — suppose  he  had  heard  of  Mr. 
Garratt?  Oh,  what  a  good  thing  Sir  George  had 
gone,  for  now,  after  all,  Tom  mightn't  know.  She 
stopped  before  her  glass,  and  in  a  moment  had 
taken  down  her  hair,  and  smiled  as  she  saw  the 
148 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

glint  of  gold  in  it,  and  twisted  it  up  into  quite  a 
neat  knot.  "And  my  lace  collar,"  she  said,  and 
pinned  it  round  her  throat  and  fastened  it  with  a 
little  heart-shaped  brooch  that  her  mother  had 
given  her  on  her  birthday;  "and  my  best  shoes,  for 
these  are  shabby  at  the  toes."  Then  she  was 
ready. 

She  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  to  look  in  at  her  mother's  room,  of  which 
the  door  stood  open.  It  had  a  great,  gaunt  wardrobe 
in  it,  and  an  old-fashioned  bed  with  a  high  screen 
round  one  side — the  farther  one  from  the  door. 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat,  for  something  like 
a  sob  came  to  it — and  yet  she  was  so  happy.  Out- 
side her  mother's  door,  still  nearer  to  the  stairs, 
there  was  a  little  room  used  as  a  box  place  and  hang- 
ing cupboard;  her  mother's  best  dress  and  a  long 
cloak  that  she  wore  in  the  winter,  and  many  things 
not  often  used,  were  stowed  away  there,  or  hung 
on  hooks.  She  looked  at  them  as  if  to  mark  some- 
thing in  her  memory,  or  because  of  an  unconscious 
knowledge  perhaps  of  a  day  that  had  yet  to  come. 
As  she  went  down  the  old,  polished  staircase  she 
heard  Hannah  moving  briskly  in  the  kitchen. 

"She  is  getting  some  scones  ready  in  case  he 
stays  to  tea,"  Margaret  thought,  and  demurely 
walked  into  the  best  parlor.  Her  mother  was  sit- 
ting in  the  chintz-covered  arm-chair  by  the  window, 
and  Tom  sat  facing  her  near  the  writing-table. 
149 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

He  looked  tall  and  strong  as  he  jumped  up  and 
went  forward  to  greet  her. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  said.  "Mr.  Vincent  told 
me  I  might  come,  you  know,  and  here  I  am — I 
heard  he  had  gone. "  His  voice  was  cordial  enough, 
but  in  the  first  moment  Margaret  knew  that  he  was 
different — different  from  the  morning  when  he 
had  said  good-bye  at  the  Langham,  and  talked 
of  coming  to  Chidhurst,  and  foretold  that  they 
would  have  another  drive  round  London  together. 
He  was  a  little  more  distant,  she  felt,  as  if  he  thought 
less  of  her,  as  if  he  liked  her  less,  as  if  he  had  heard 
of  Mr.  Garratt  and  despised  her.  It  chilled  her; 
she  had  nothing  to  say  after  a  bare  welcome,  and 
Mrs.  Vincent,  thinking  that,  now  Margaret  had 
come,  Mr.  Carringford  would  naturally  talk  to  her, 
was  silent,  too.  Then  Tom  jerked  out — 

"When  are  you  going  to  get  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Vincent?" 

"We  expect  it  every  day  now,"  Mrs.  Vincent 
answered,  and  turned  to  Margaret.  "Mr.  Car- 
ringford has  ridden  over  from  Hindhead,"  she 
said,  "and  I've  thanked  him  for  the  roses  and  told 
him  I  couldn't  remember  the  day  when  I'd  had 
any  sent  me  before." 

"Miss  Vincent  and  I  made  an  expedition  to- 
gether— " 

"Oh  yes,  we've  often  talked  it  over  together." 

Margaret  wished  her  mother  hadn't  said  that; 
150 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

it  made  the  color  come  to  her  face;  but  luckily 
Tom  was  not  looking  at  her,  and  then  Mrs.  Vincent 
added  simply,  in  the  half-countrified  manner  into 
which,  for  some  strange  reason,  her  speech  had 
relapsed  since  her  husband's  departure,  "You'll 
be  tired  after  your  ride,  Mr.  Carringford ;  you  must 
stay  for  a  cup  of  tea." 

"I  should  like  to,  if  1  may." 

"And  while  it's  getting  ready  Margaret  could 
show  you  the  garden,  if  you'd  care  to  see  it." 
She  said  it  with  the  native  dignity  that  was  al- 
ways impressive.  It  had  its  effect  on  Tom. 

"I  should  like  to  see  it  very  much,"  he  said, 
and  five  minutes  later  he  and  Margaret  were  walk- 
ing down  the  green  pathway  of  the  Dutch  garden. 
Almost  without  knowing  it,  she  took  him  through 
the  garden  gate  towards  the  wood,  and  across  a 
green  corner,  through  a  tangle  of  undergrowths, 
up  to  the  great  elms  and  beeches.  They  had 
hardly  spoken  on  the  way ;  they  felt  constrained  and 
awkward;  but  when  they  reached  the  top  things 
seemed  to  adjust  themselves  in  their  minds,  and 
they  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  laugh- 
ed as  if  they  thought  it  good  to  be  together  again. 
Then  Tom  shook  off  his  awkwardness;  the  boyish 
happiness  was  on  his  face  again,  and  she  was 
almost  satisfied.  "I  say,  what  a  wood!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 
" It's  father's  and  mine ;  we  call  it  our  cathedral." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Good!  good!"  he  answered.  "When  are  you 
coming  to  London  again?" 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  at  him.  "I 
don't  know,  but  I  want  to  go  again  dreadfully. 
Do  you  think  I  could  go  by  myself?" 

"Well,  no!  But  you  might  come  up  and  stay 
with  the  Lakemans.  You  must  make  haste  about 
it  if  you  do,  for  they're  going  to  Scotland  at  the 
end  of  July.  Only  another  month,  you  know. 
By -the -way,  I  rather  think  you'll  see  them  here 
first.  Stringer  can't  get  away  again  till  the  middle 
of  August  except  for  week-ends,  and  then  he  has  to 
go  to  Folkestone;  he  has  a  sister  there— ill.  But 
the  Lakemans  told  me  a  day  or  two  ago  that  they 
were  coming  here  for  a  Saturday  to  Monday;  he 
had  offered  them  the  house." 

"When?" 

"I  don't  know  when,  but  pretty  soon,  I  expect. 
Farley  is  coming,  too;  he  has  taken  a  theatre, 
and  is  going  to  produce  a  legendary  thing  this 
autumn,  'Prince  of — something',  it  is  called." 

"Will  there  be  a  princess  in  it?" 

"I  expect  so.     Why?" 

"  When  Miss  Hunstan  came  out  first  she  walked 
on  the  stage  holding  up  a  princess's  train." 

"  They  generally  begin  in  that  way,  you  know. 
By-the-way,  Stringer  said  that  you  were  walking 
about  the  fields  with  a  friend — was  it  anybody 
particular?" 

152 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"It  was  Mr.  Garratt." 

"Who  is  Mr.  Garratt?" 

"He  used  to  be  a  house  agent  at  Petersfield. 
He's  at  Guildford  now.  He  has  just  taken  a  house 
there." 

"A  married  gentleman?" 

"  No/'  she  laughed ;  "  that's  why  he  comes.  He 
doesn't  come  for  me,"  she  added,  hurriedly,  but  he 
didn't  understand  her. 

"Any  success?"  he  asked,  quickly — "of  course 
not." 

"Not  yet;  Hannah  won't  encourage  him." 

He  mistook  her  tone  altogether,  and  walked  to 
the  edge  of  the  crown  and  looked  out  at  the  view. 

"  That's  rather  hard  lines  "  he  said ;  "  but  it 
doesn't  matter  if  you  make  it  up  to  him,  of  course. 
1  say,  it's  magnificent  up  here,"  he  went  on;  "do 
you  ever  bring  Mr. — what  is  he  called? — Garratt 
up  here?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  quickly. 

"Well,  you  took  him  across  the  field?' 

"  I  met  him  by  accident,  and  Hannah  was  very 
angry — "  she  began,  but  stopped  in  sheer  con- 
fusion. 

"You  seem  to  be  rather  afraid  of  Hannah," 
he  said,  for  it  simply  never  occurred  to  him  that 
there  should  be  any  question  of  love-making  be- 
tween Mr.  Garratt  and  Hannah.  Margaret  was 
such  a  nice  girl,  he  thought;  it  was  a  pity  she 
153 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

should  flirt,  for  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  only  a 
flirtation  with  a  local  house  -  agent ;  it  put  her  on 
another  level  altogether  from  the  girl  he  had  known 
in  London.  And  so  talk  was  not  very  easy  between 
them  again,  since  each  felt  a  little  indignant  with 
the  other.  "Are  you  going  to  be  here  all  the 
summer?"  he  asked,  when  they  returned  to  the 
garden. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  answered,  "unless  I  go  to 
London.  I  want  to  do  that  more  than  anything 
in  the  world." 

"A  romantic  elopement  with  the  gentleman  we 
have  been  discussing?" 

"Oh,  how  can  you!  He  is  nothing  to  me;  he 
knows  that — it  is  Hannah." 

She  looked  downright  beautiful  when  the  color 
came  to  her  face,  he  thought,  and  wished  Mr.  Gar- 
ratt  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

"When  is  your  father  coming  back?"  he  asked, 
and  his  tone  was  constrained. 

"We  don't  know  till  we  get  his  letter,"  she  said, 
impatiently;  something  was  wrong  with  this  inter- 
view, and  it  seemed  impossible  to  set  it  right. 

"You  must  tell  the  Lakemans  when  they  turn 
up;  then  I  shall  hear." 

Tea  was  ready  when  they  returned — a  generous 

tea,  set  out  as  usual  in  the  living-room.     Tom  took 

his  place  next  to  Mrs.  Vincent  and  talked  to  her 

gayly,  while  his  eye  wandered  over  the  table  with 

154 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

the  satisfaction  of  a  school-boy.  Margaret  re- 
membered how  he  had  talked  of  going  into  the 
House  of  Commons;  but  he  didn't  look  a  bit  like 
a  politician,  she  thought,  he  was  so  splendidly 
young,  and  he  and  she  had  understood  each  other 
so  well  in  London.  But  now  he  seemed  to  be 
bound  hand  and  foot  to  the  Lakemans,  and  he 
thought  she  cared  for  that  horrid  Mr.  Garratt. 

"I  like  big  tea  and  jam,"  he  said.  "Do  you 
ever  come  up  to  London,  Mrs.  Vincent?" 

"No,"  she  answered;  "but  sometimes  I  have 
thought  that  I  should  like  to  go  with  Margaret 
while  her  father  is  away." 

"Did  you  think  that,  mother  dear?"  Margaret 
asked,  in  surprise. 

"Better  come  and  stay  with  me.  I  could  take 
you  both  in." 

Hannah  was  pouring  out  the  tea,  grasping  the 
teapot  with  a  firm  hand,  putting  it  down  with 
determination  on  the  tray  when  the  cups  were 
filled.  "Mother  is  better  where  she  is,"  she  said, 
without  looking  up.  "Towsey,  there  is  no  slop- 
basin  on  the  table.  I  hold  with  staying  at  home, 
Mr.  Carringford,  though  I've  sometimes  thought 
I'd  like  to  go  up  myself  for  the  May  meetings." 

"May  meetings?    Of  course — I  know.    I  thought 
you  meant  races  at  first — but  it  is  Exeter  Hall  you 
are  thinking  of?    I'm  afraid  Mr.  and  Miss  Vincent 
didn't  go  there  when  they  were  in  town." 
155 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Mr.  Carringford." 

"  Good  Lord,  what  an  ogress! "  he  thought.  "  They 
had  a  pretty  good  time,  though,"  he  said,  aloud. 

"Margaret  has  told  me  about  it  so  often,"  Mrs. 
Vincent  said,  and  Tom,  turning  to  look  at  her 
while  she  spoke,  realized  suddenly  that  this  mother 
of  Margaret,  who  had  grown  old  and  gray,  was 
beautiful.  He  looked  round  the  living-room;  his 
eyes  lingered  on  the  black  beams  and  the  great 
fireplace  and  the  red-tiled  floor ;  it  made  a  peaceful 
picture,  he  thought,  in  spite  of  the  ogress. 

"Did  she  tell  you  about  Miss  Hunstan?"  he 
asked.  "It  was  rather  lucky  coming  across  her." 

"She  told  me  all  about  her,"  Mrs.  Vincent  an- 
swered, "and  how  you  went  to  her  rooms  and  put 
the  flowers  into  the  pots.  It  made  me  hope — that, 
and  what  my  husband  told  me — that  some  day 
you  would  come  and  see  us  here." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  simply. 

"  Who  is  Miss  Hunstan?"  asked  Hannah. 

Tom  answered,  beamingly,  "  Why,  Louise  Hun- 
stan, the  actress,  you  know!" 

"I  didn't  know,  Mr.  Carringford.  I  don't  hold 
with  theatres  or  any  such  places,  and  I  was  sur- 
prised at  Mr.  Vincent  taking  Margaret  to  one.  I 
can't  see  that  people  are  any  the  better — "  She 
stopped,  for  there  were  footsteps  on  the  pathway 
outside,  and  a  moment  later  Mr.  Garratt  walked 
in  with  an  air  of  being  quite  at  home. 
156 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"How  do  you  do,  everybody?"  he  said.  He 
wore  his  best  clothes  and  the  spats  over  his  shoes. 
The  handkerchief  in  his  breast-pocket  was  scented 
more  than  usual.  He  took  it  out  and  shook  it 
and  put  it  back  again,  while  a  whiff  of  white  rose 
floated  over  the  table.  His  hair  was  tightly  curled 
at  the  tips ;  he  ran  his  fingers  through  it  as  he  took 
off  his  bowler  hat. 

"We  didn't  expect  you,  Mr.  Garratt,"  Hannah 
said  with  sudden  graciousness,  and  made  room 
for  him  beside  her. 

"  Didn't  know  you  had  company/'  he  answered, 
jauntily.  "I  hope  I  don't  intrude?  Mrs.  Vincent, 
how  do  you  do?  Miss  Margaret,  your  humble 
servant,"  and  reluctantly  he  sat  down  beside 
Hannah. 

"This  is  Mr.  Carringford,  a  friend  of  my  hus- 
band's," Mrs.  Vincent  told  her  visitor. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  Tom  looked  up  and  nod- 
ded. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  Mr.  Garratt  nodded  back,  try- 
ing to  do  it  easily.  "  Thought  it  was  Sir  George 
Stringer  at  first  till  I  recollected  that  he  was  a 
middle-ager. " 

"We  didn't  expect  you  to-day,  Mr.  Garratt," 
Hannah  remarked,  pouring  out  his  tea. 

"  I  told  Miss  Vincent  I  should  come."  He  looked 
across  at  Margaret,  determined  to  show  off  before 
the  stranger. 

157 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"I  don't  remember  that  you  did — "  Margaret 
began. 

"Oh,  come  now,  you  knew  I  wanted  to  bring 
you  that  book  of  poems  I  told  you  about.  You 
shall  have  it  if  you're  good." 

"  You  had  better  give  it  to  Hannah,  Mr.  Garratt. 
She  will  appreciate  it  more  than  I  shall.  I  had 
no  idea  that  you  meant  to  bring  it." 

Tom  looked  up  and  wondered  what  it  all  meant. 

"  Well,  but  what  did  I  say  the  other  night?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Margaret  answered,  coldly. 
"  I  never  remember  the  things  you  say." 

But  Mr.  Garratt  was  not  to  be  snubbed.  "Oh, 
come  now,  don't  be  showing  off  again,"  he  laughed, 
and  turned  to  Tom — "Miss  Vincent  is  a  difficult 
young  lady,  I  assure  you,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of 
quite  understanding  her.  "But  perhaps  you've 
found  that  out  too." 

"  How  should  I  have  found  it  out?"  Tom  asked, 
stiffly. 

"Well,  you  see,  I've  heard  a  few  things — no 
jealousy — that's  only  a  joke,"  as  Margaret  started ; 
"you  are  one  of  Miss  Vincent's  London  friends,  I 
think?  It  was  you  who  gave  her  the  roses  she 
brought  back.  You  see  I  know  all  about  it."  He 
laughed  with  satisfaction,  and  gave  Hannah  a 
kick  under  the  table  from  sheer  lightness  of  heart, 
and  by  way  of  keeping  everybody  in  tow,  as  he 
called  it  to  himself. 

158 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

"We  certainly  bought  some  roses  in  Covent 
Garden,"  Tom  said,  and  got  up  to  go.  He  couldn't 
stand  any  more  of  this  chap,  he  thought. 

"I  didn't  tell  you  about  it,  Mr.  Garratt,"  Mar- 
garet said,  indignantly.  "Oh,  don't  go,  Mr.  Car- 
ringford." 

"I  know  you  didn't  tell  me,"  Mr.  Garratt  said, 
with  a  wink.  "  It  was  Miss  Barton  who  gave  me 
that  little  bit  of  information — you  kept  it  to  your- 
self." Tom  had  hesitated,  but  this  decided  him. 
Mr.  Garratt  was  not  the  sort  of  person  with  whom 
he  could  bring  himself  to  compete. 

"Well,  good-bye,  Mrs.  Vincent,"  he  said,  shak- 
ing hands  with  her  and  then  with  Margaret  and 
Hannah.  He  nodded  to  Mr.  Garratt,  and  strode 
towards  the  door. 

"But  you  must  wait  till  your  horse  is  brought 
round,"  Mrs.  Vincent  said.  "Hannah,  will  you 
tell  Sandy  or  Jim?" 

"  It  is  ready,"  Mr.  Garratt  volunteered.  "  I  won- 
dered whose  it  was  when  I  went  into  the  stable 
just  now.  I'll  take  you  to  it,  if  you  like,"  he  add- 
ed, graciously,  to  Tom. 

"  Pray  don't  trouble,"  Tom  answered,  in  an  off- 
hand manner. 

"No  trouble  at  all."  Mr.  Garratt  led  the  way 
out  as  if  he  were  the  master  of  the  house,  while 
Margaret  looked  after  them  and  felt  as  if  she  were 
being  tortured. 

159 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Fond  of  a  ride?"  asked  Mr.  Garratt  as  they 
went  along. 

"  I  suppose  so/'  said  Tom,  distantly. 

"  I  should  like  to  show  you  the  decent  little  mare 
I'm  riding.  I  think  sometimes  I  shall  get  a  fellow 
to  it  for  Margaret.  We  are  both  of  us  fond  of  the 
country  and  getting  about."  He  called  her  Mar- 
garet deliberately,  and  with  an  air  of  custom — 
for  it  would  be  better,  he  told  himself,  to  choke 
this  Johnnie  off  as  soon  as  possible. 

"Would  she  like  it?" 

"Rather!     Trust  her,"  with  a  knowing  wink. 

"  Beast  1 "  thought  Tom,  as  he  mounted.  "  Well, 
good-evening,"  he  said,  aloud,  to  Mr.  Garratt, 
and  went  off  at  a  brisk  trot,  wondering  how  Mar- 
garet could  stand  him. 

"He  knows  how  to  give  himself  airs,  too,"  Mr. 
Garratt  said  to  himself,  looking  after  him.  "I'm 
rather  surprised  he  didn't  offer  me  a  tip  while  he 
was  about  it.  I'd  like  to  take  down  all  these  chaps 
and  show  'em  the  way  they  should  go;  but  we  are 
doing  it,"  he  added,  thinking  not  of  himself  but 
of  his  class — "  and  once  we've  got  the  upper  hand 
we'll  keep  it,  and  let  'em  see  that  we  can  be  swells 
as  well  as  any  one  else."  He  walked  slowly  back 
to  the  house,  thinking  of  Margaret.  He  was  get- 
ting up  to  her  ways,  and  he  knew  how  to  keep  his 
temper — and  the  man  who  waited  won.  He  liked 
her,  but  his  feeling  was  pique,  rather  than  passion, 
160 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

and  he  felt  that  to  subdue  her  would  be  a  gratifica- 
tion to  his  vanity  greater  than  any  other  he  could 
imagine.  "And  she's  such  a  beauty!" — he  al- 
ways came  back  to  that.  "  While  there's  a  chance 
of  her,  I'd  rather  be  shot  than  kiss  that  sour  old 
hen,  Hannah.  I'll  have  Margaret  if  I  die  for  it. 
I  wish  I'd  thought  of  it  and  tried  to  find  out  if  that 
chap  knew  anything  about  Vincent's  relations. 
I  expect  he's  been  up  to  something,  but  I  don't 
care — the  girl  isn't  any  the  worse  for  it." 

During  his  absence  the  storm  had  burst  in  the 
living-room,  but  luckily  circumstances  obliged  it 
to  be  brief. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  think  of  your- 
self now  with  your  slyness  and  deceit?"  Hannah 
had  asked  Margaret. 

"I'll  not  have  you  speak  to  your  sister  in  this 
way,"  Mrs.  Vincent  began;  but  her  remonstrances 
had  grown  ineffectual  lately. 

"Mr.  Garratt  told  you  he  was  coming,  did  he, 
though  nobody  else  in  the  house  knew  it?"  Han- 
nah went  on.  "You  took  good  care  that  they 
shouldn't." 

"  If  he  did  tell  me  I  had  forgotten  it,"  Margaret 
answered,  scornfully. 

"You  can  be  trusted  to  forget  anything — if  it's 
convenient.  What's  this  poetry  he's  brought  you, 
I  should  like  to  know?" 

"I  didn't  know  he  meant  to  bring  it.  He  said 
»  161 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

something  about  Eugene  Field's  poems  the  other 
day,  and  that  he  had  recited  one  at  a  chapel  festi- 
val." 

The  mention  of  the  chapel  somewhat  mollified 
Hannah  without  subduing  her  jealousy.  "Well, 
something  will  have  to  be  done/'  she  said.  "  I'm 
not  going  to  put  up  with  your  conduct,  and  that 
you  shall  find  out."  At  which  point  Mr.  Garratt 
entered  a  little  uneasily,  as  if  conscious  that  things 
were  not  going  smoothly.  Margaret  looked  up 
and  spoke  to  him  quickly. 

"Mr.  Garratt,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  if  you've 
brought  me  a  book  of  poems  I  would  rather  not 
have  it." 

"Why,  what's  up  now?" 

"  Nothing  is  up,"  she  said,  with  what  Mr.  Garratt 
called  her  high  and  mighty  air. 

"  Well,  look  here — "  but  she  had  turned  away. 

"  Mother,  shall  we  go  into  the  garden?"  she  asked. 

"  It's  a  little  chilly  this  evening/'  Mrs.  Vincent 
answered. 

"  You've  taken  to  feel  the  cold  lately,"  Hannah 
said,  uneasily.  To  her  credit  be  it  said  that  she 
was  always  careful  of  her  mother's  health. 

"I've  taken  to  feel  my  years." 

"Let  us  go  into  the  best  parlor,  darling,"  Mar- 
garet said,  tenderly.     "I  might  play  to  you  for  a 
little  while.     You  always  like  that,"  and  she  put 
her  arms  round  her  mother's  shoulders. 
162 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Mr.  Garratt  took  a  quick  step  forward.  "I 
should  like  to  hear  you  play,  too,  Miss  Margaret, 
if  there's  no  objection.  I'm  a  lover  of  music,  as  I 
think  I've  told  you."  He  stood  by  the  door  of  the 
best  parlor  and  waited. 

Margaret  turned  and  faced  him.  "Stay  with 
Hannah.  I  want  to  have  my  mother  to  myself," 
she  said. 

"Well,  that's  a  nice  handful!"  Mr.  Garratt  re- 
marked, as  she  shut  the  door  and  turned  the  han- 
dle with  a  click. 

"  You  should  live  in  the  same  house  with  her," 
said  Hannah,  "then  you'd  know." 

"  She  might  have  left  it  a  little  bit  open,  at  any 
rate;  then  we  should  have  heard  her." 

"Are  you  as  anxious  as  all  that?"  asked  Han- 
nah, in  a  sarcastic  voice. 

"Well,  you  see,  it  makes  it  a  bit  lively." 

"When  I  was  at  Petersfield  the  other  day  your 
mother  asked  me  if  I  would  see  that  the  grass  on 
your  Aunt  Amelia's  grave  was  clipped.  I  brought 
in  the  small  shears,  and  thought  perhaps  you 
might  walk  over  and  do  it  next  time  you  came." 

"Damn  my  Aunt  Amelia's  grave! "he  said, be- 
tween his  teeth. 

"Mr.  Garratt,  you  are  forgetting  yourself!"  she 
cried,  in  amazement. 

"She's  enough  to  make  any  one  forget  any- 
thing," he  said,  nodding  towards  the  best  parlor. 
163 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"You  take  far  too  much  notice  of  her." 

"She  doesn't  return  the  compliment,  anyhow." 

"And  for  my  part/'  said  Hannah,  indignantly, 

"I  don't  understand  what  it  is  you  come  here  for." 

At  which  Mr.  Garratt  faced  her  squarely.    "  Now 

look  here,  Hannah,"  he  said,  "she  gives  herself 

tantrums  enough;  don't  you  begin,  for  two  of  you 

in  one  house  would  be  a  trifle  more  than  is  needed." 

She  sat  down  without  a  word,  and  closed  her 

lips  firmly.     The  tip  of  her  nose  became  a  deeper 

pink.     Her  eyelids  fluttered  for  a  minute  quickly 

up  and  down.     She  looked  forlorn — even  a  shade 

tragic.     Mr.  Garratt,  with  his  heart  reaching  out 

to  Margaret,  obstinate  and  determined  not  to  be 

thwarted,  yet  felt  a  touch  of  pity  for  the  woman 

before  him;  perhaps  unconsciously  he  recognized 

the  limitations  and  the  impossibilities  of  her  life. 

"There,  come  along,"  he  said,  half  kindly. 
"  Come  along,  Hannah."  The  sound  of  her  Chris- 
tian name  soothed  her  considerably.  "Let's  go 
for  a  little  stroll;  but  Fm  not  going  to  hang  about 
any  one's  grave.  It'll  be  bad  enough  when  I  come 
to  my  own." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XV 

THE  letters  from  Mr.  Vincent  were  not  satisfac- 
tory. His  brother  was  no  better,  but  the  end  was 
not  likely  to  be  immediate.  A  specialist  from 
Melbourne  had  even  said  that  he  might  go  on  for 
another  year.  Mrs.  Vincent's  heart  sank  as  she 
read  it.  She  was  a  strange  woman,  with  a  wide 
outlook,  and  knew  perfectly  that  time,  which  had 
dealt  heavily  with  her,  had  tempered  the  years  to 
her  husband;  there  were  days  when  he  looked 
almost  like  a  young  man  still,  and  in  secret  she 
fretted  over  her  age.  She  knew,  too,  though  no 
such  thought  had  ever  entered  his  head,  that  it 
was  a  little  hard  on  him  that  he  should  be  tied  to 
a  woman  older  than  himself,  incapable  of  giving 
him  the  companionship  that  insensibly  he  needed. 
She  had  not  felt  well  lately,  and  found  vague  con- 
solation in  the  possibility  to  which  this  pointed. 
But  she  wanted  to  see  him  again,  even  for  a  little 
while,  then  she  could  be  content.  Those  about  her 
guessed  nothing  of  all  this :  to  them  it  only  seemed 
that  she  had  grown  more  silent  and  dreamy  than 
before. 

Margaret  heard  of  her  father's  probably  pro- 
165 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

tracted  absence  with  despair.  Something  must 
happen,  she  thought;  she  herself  must  get  out  of 
the  way,  or  Mr.  Garratt  must  become  engaged  to 
Hannah.  For  matters  had  in  no  way  improved. 
A  sort  of  struggle  was  going  on.  On  Margaret's 
side  it  was  to  keep  out  of  his  sight,  on  his  to  speak 
to  her  alone  for  some  uninterrupted  minutes;  but 
as  yet  success  had  attended  neither  of  them,  and 
his  attitude  towards  Hannah  remained  what  it  al- 
ways had  been.  Once  or  twice  Margaret  had  an 
idea  of  boldly  seeking  an  interview,  and  then  tell- 
ing him  that  his  attentions  were  simply  making 
her  miserable,  of  even  throwing  herself  on  his 
mercy;  but  something  in  his  manner  suggested 
that  Mr.  Garratt  knew  everything  already,  except 
the  impossibility  of  his  own  success.  Meanwhile 
the  fifty  pounds,  that  her  father  had  arranged 
she  should  receive  every  quarter,  arrived  for  the 
second  time. 

"You  are  sure  that  you  want  me  to  have  it, 
mother?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  Margey.  I  told  your  father  that  I  wished 
it." 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  am  rolling  in  wealth,"  she  said. 
This  was  a  month  after  Tom  Carringford's  visit — a 
whole  month,  and  there  had  not  been  another  sign 
of  him — and  the  last  Saturday  in  July.  The  mid- 
day meal  was  just  over,  and  Hannah  was  going 
to  and  fro  between  the  living-place  and  the  kitch- 
166 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

en,  while  Margaret  sat  in  the  porch  with  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent. "Mother,"  she  whispered,  "I  have  been 
thinking  lately  that  I  would  write  to  Miss  Hunstan 
again." 

"The  play-actress?"  Mrs.  Vincent  whispered 
back,  lest  Hannah  should  catch  the  word. 

"Yes,  the  play-actress,"  Margaret  said,  with  a 
laugh  in  her  eyes.  "She  is  good  and  sweet — Mr. 
Carringford's  mother  loved  her.  She  said  again  in 
the  letter  she  sent  me  that  I  was  to  go  and  see  her 
if  I  was  in  London.  I  want  to  go  soon.  Fm  afraid 
she  will  be  abroad  if  I  don't ;  for  she  was  going  to 
Germany  in  August." 

"  But  you  can't  go  till  your  father  returns." 

"I  can't  stay  here  unless  something  to  make 
things  better  happens.  Oh,  mother,"  she  said, 
fervently,  after  a  pause,  "I  do  so  hate  Mr.  Gar- 
ratt." 

Hannah  heard  the  last  words  and  stopped. 

"It's  a  pity  you  don't  tell  him  so,"  she  said, 
"  instead  of  always  trying  to  draw  him  to  yourself. 
You  make  one  ashamed  of  your  boldness." 

"He  came  first  because  of  Hannah,  Margey, 
dear,  ard  is  as  good  as  her  promised  husband," 
Mrs.  Vincent  urged. 

"But  he  hasn't  spoken — " 

"And  never  will  if  you  can  help  it,"  Hannah 
answered,  quickly.  "Besides,  it's  my  opinion 
that  he  doesn't  want  to  be  related  to  an  unbeliever 
167 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

— and  perhaps  something  worse.  It's  just  what 
he  thought  would  happen  about  the  Australian 
business." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Mrs.  Vincent  looked 
up  aghast. 

"  What  I  mean  is  that  we  don't  know  anything 
about — father,"  Hannah  answered,  hesitating  be- 
fore she  said  the  last  word.  "We  never  set  eyes 
on  any  one  belonging  to  him;  we  have  only  his 
word  for  it  that  he  has  got  this  brother;  for  all  we 
know  to  the  contrary  he  may  have  married  another 
woman  before  he  came  here,  and  have  gone  back 
to  her.  There  is  nothing  to  hold  him  to  what  is 
right,  or  to  help  him  to  choose  between  right  and 
wrong.  For  my  part,  I  only  hope  that  I  may  be 
out  of  the  place  before  he  comes  into  it  again — if 
he  ever  does  set  foot  in  it  again — for  I  hate  the 
ground  he  treads  on,  and  the  ground  that  Mar- 
garet treads  on,  too — so  now  I've  said  it.  It's  my 
belief  that  the  Lord  will  provide  for  them  both  some 
day  according  to  their  deserts." 

Mrs.  Vincent  rose  from  her  chair  and  stood  with 
her  back  to  the  fireplace.  Her  face  looked  drawn 
and  haggard,  her  lips  were  almost  rigid,  but  her 
voice  came  clear  and  low.  It  fell  upon  Hannah 
like  a  lash. 

"You  are  a  malicious  woman,  Hannah,"  she 
said,  "and  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  I  know  every- 
thing about  him,  and  that  is  enough.  I  have  held 
168 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

ray  tongue  because  you  have  never  treated  him 
as  you  should,  and  his  affairs  are  no  business  of 
yours.  But  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
thoughts;  and  as  for  religion,  it  is  you  that  want 
it,  not  he.  It's  the  leading  of  a  good  life,  the  tell- 
ing of  the  truth,  and  the  thinking  well  of  others 
that  makes  religion  and  will  gain  heaven — that's 
my  belief.  Those  that  do  different  are  as  good  as 
denying  God.  I  said  it  to  your  grandparents  long 
ago,  and  I  say  it  again  to  you  to-day."  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent's diction  was  not  always  strictly  correct,  but 
her  meaning  was  clear  enough. 

"And  I  know  everything  about  father,  too/' 
Margaret  said,  gently — for  somehow  she  was  sorry 
for  Hannah — "  and  I  cannot  think  why  you  should 
hate  him — or  even  why  you  should  hate  me."  She 
went  a  step  out  into  the  garden,  and  as  she  stood 
with  her  head  raised,  looking  up  at  the  high  woods 
beyond,  Hannah  felt  insensibly  that  there  was  a 
difference  between  them  against  which  it  was 
hopeless  to  contend  —  not  merely  a  difference  in 
looks,  but  a  difference  of  class.  It  was  one  of  the 
things  she  resented  most. 

"I  know  this,"  she  said,  "that  it  was  a  bad  day 
for  me  when  he  first  walked  through  Chidhurst 
village  to  Woodside  farm." 

"Mother,"  said  Margaret,  turning  round,  "some 
one  has  come  to  the  house  by  the  church.  I  passed 
it  this  morning  and  saw  the  luggage  going  in. 
169 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Mr.  Carringford  said  that  Sir  George  was  going 
to  lend  it  from  a  Saturday  to  Monday  to  some 
friends  of  father's.  Perhaps  they  have  come." 

"More  of  his  fine  feathers/'  said  Hannah,  con- 
temptuously. "It's  a  pity  he  was  left  plucked 
so  long." 

"Hannah,  be  quiet,"  Mrs.  Vincent  said,  sternly. 
"  Go  to  your  work,  and  don't  come  to  me  again  till 
you  have  learned  respect  for  those  who  are  better 
than  yourself."  It  was  almost  a  command,  but 
Mrs.  Vincent  had  been  roused  into  her  old  self 
again — the  self  of  bygone  years. 

Luckily  Towsey  appeared  on  the  scene. 

"Sandy  wants  to  know  whether  he's  to  be  here 
to-morrow  to  take  Mr.  Garratt's  horse.  You  said 
something  about  his  not  coming." 

Hannah  hurried  out  to  speak  to  the  old  cow- 
man who  usually  waited  for  Mr.  Garratt's  mare 
on  Sunday  morning  before  going  to  church. 

"Mr.  Garratt  won't  be  over  early  to-morrow," 
she  said.  "He's  driving  a  trap  from  Guildford, 
and  it'll  take  him  all  he  knows  to  get  here  by  din- 
ner-time. If  you  come  up  after  church,  Sandy, 
it'll  do."  This  was  an  arrangement  Mr.  Garratt 
had  made,  rather  to  Hannah's  surprise,  on  his  last 
visit.  It  would  be  better  than  the  train,  he  had 
explained ;  but  it  was  a  long  way,  and  it  would  be 
impossible  for  him  to  arrive  before  the  middle  of 
the  day. 

170 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XVI 

MARGARET  had  guessed  rightly.  Mrs.  Lakeman 
and  Lena,  and  Dawson  Farley,  who,  as  usual, 
was  with  them,  were  at  Sir  George  Stringer's  house 
from  Saturday  to  Monday,  while  Sir  George  him- 
self was  at  Folkestone  with  his  sister.  Dawson 
Farley  rejoiced  in  the  absence  of  their  host,  for  he 
had  wanted  a  talk  with  Mrs.  Lakeman,  and  this 
visit  promised  to  give  him  a  good  opportunity. 
He  was  deliberating  within  himself  as  they  sat 
together  after  luncheon  how  he  should  begin  it. 
Lena  had  slipped  away,  and  wriggled  among  the 
greenery. 

"We'll  go  over  to  the  farm  presently,"  Mrs. 
Lakeman  said.  "  I  want  to  see  what  the  woman 
with  the  look  of  distinction  is  like,"  she  added,  with 
the  crooked  smile  peculiar  to  her.  "  Gerald  faced  it 
out  very  well,  but  I  expect  he  is  frightfully  bored." 

"  Why  did  he  marry  her?" 

Mrs.  Lakeman  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Poor 
chap,  he  didn't  care  what  became  of  him;  but  it 
wasn't  my  fault — 'pon  my  word  it  wasn't,  Daw- 
son.  My  father  made  an  awful  row."  Mrs.  Lake- 
man was  always  a  trifle  slangy. 
171 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Dawson  Farley  looked  at  her  and  nodded  absent- 
ly. He  quite  understood  all  she  meant  to  imply, 
but  he  was  busy  with  his  own  train  of  thought. 
She  was  a  curious  woman,  he  thought,  a  curious, 
capable  woman  who  never  bored  him  and  knew 
how  to  do  things  admirably.  It  had  often  oc- 
curred to  him  that  it  would  be  an  excellent  thing 
to  marry  her.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  simply 
could  not  stand  Lena.  She  was  so  like  a  snake 
with  her  twisting  and  squirming,  and  the  mali- 
cious things  she  said  with  an  air  of  unconscious- 
ness. The  mother,  on  the  other  hand,  was  an  ex- 
cellent critic  and  companion,  and  would  serve  his 
purpose  admirably.  He  was  not  in  love  with  her, 
of  course — she  was  too  old  for  that — and  it  was 
just  as  well,  for  being  in  love  with  one's  wife  was 
a  state  that  naturally  didn't  last  long.  Luckily 
she  was  not  a  jealous  woman,  and  so  would  not 
be;likely  to  resent  it  if  he  chose  to  flirt  with  his  lead- 
ing lady ;  on  the  contrary,  if  he  told  her  all  about 
it,  he  felt  certain  it  would  amuse  her,  and  she  had 
so  excellent  an  eye  for  home-made  dramatic  effects 
that  even  the  worst  domestic  crisis  would  be  fol- 
lowed by  a  reconciliation,  if  only  for  the  sake  of 
contrast.  She  was  a  bit  unreal,  but  what  did  it 
matter?  the  tragedies  of  life  were  bound  up  with 
realities,  but  there  was  comedy  to  be  had  from  the 
make-believes. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  for  his  own  peace,  that  at 
172 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

the  back  of  his  life  there  was  always  Louise  Hun- 
stan.  He  had  been  in  love  with  her  once;  but  he 
was  glad  that  nothing  had  come  of  it,  for  he  couldn't 
have  endured  a  wife  in  his  own  profession :  if  she 
had  been  a  success  he  would  have  hated  her;  if 
she  had  been  a  failure  he  would  have  despised 
her.  He  had  discovered  Louise,  that  was  the  hard 
part  of  it;  she  had  let  go  the  princess's  train  to 
enter  his  company  and  gratefully  play  small  parts. 
They  had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other,  and  happi- 
ness and  love  together  inspired  her  until,  almost 
unawares,  she  achieved  a  reputation.  If  she  had 
only  made  it  on  his  advising,  if  he  could  have  con- 
sidered it  his  gift  to  her,  he  could  have  forgiven  her 
more  easily  and  even  loved  her  through  it.  But 
she  had  struck  out  for  herself,  often  contrary  to 
his  advice,  and  made  a  reputation  for  herself.  In 
her  heart  she  had  laid  it  at  his  feet,  and  rejoiced 
in  it,  thinking  it  would  make  him  proud  of  her, 
but  it  roused  a  miserable  jealousy  and  drove  them 
apart.  He  gave  her  to  understand  that  he  did  not 
altogether  believe  in  her  success;  that  it  was  a 
fluke,  due  to  the  good  nature  of  the  critics  and 
the  stupidity  of  the  public,  and  that  it  would  van- 
ish with  her  youth  or  her  freshness.  She  be- 
lieved him  at  first,  but  gradually  she  saw  through 
him.  She  cared  for  him  all  the  same  for  a  time, 
though  it  was  through  a  haze  of  bitterness 
and  disappointment.  Then  their  engagement  col- 
173 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

lapsed,  and  he  returned  to  England  alone,  while 
she  remained  in  the  States  through  five  hard- 
working years.  At  the  end  of  them  she  came 
back  to  England.  It  was  then  that  Tom's  mother 
met  her,  and  took  her  by  the  hand  and  helped 
her  till  she  had  achieved  a  permanent  position. 
Over  here  she  and  Farley  had  become  friends  to 
a  certain  extent,  but  he  couldn't  stand  the  irrita- 
tion of  her  success;  he  even  found  a  secret  pleas- 
ure in  her  occasional  failures;  and  a  meeting 
between  them  involved  an  embarrassment  of  man- 
ner that  neither  could  put  aside. 

After  all,  he  thought,  Mrs.  Lakeman  would 
suit  him  much  better.  He  liked  her  adaptability 
of  manner,  her  quick  interest  in  his  affairs.  They 
had  only  known  each  other  a  year,  but  she  had 
become  his  most  intimate  friend,  his  chum  and 
companion ;  her  society  stimulated  him ;  he  wanted 
it  more  and  more.  Why  shouldn't  he  have  it  al- 
together? Only  the  girl  stood  in  the  way;  but 
probably  she  would  marry ;  she  had  a  curious  fas- 
cination for  some  people,  and  she  had  money. 

"  Is  Carringford  coming?"  he  asked.  "  I  thought 
you  invited  him." 

"He  dines  and  sleeps  here  to-morrow  with  an 
old  friend — they  are  staying  at  Frencham  together. 
I  didn't  want  him  here  all  the  time,"  she  said, 
significantly.  "He  raved  quite  enough  about 
Gerald  Vincent's  girl  those  two  days  in  town." 
174 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"  I  thought  Stringer  found  out  there  was  a '  young 
bounder'  in  the  way?" 

"Awfully  lucky,  wasn't  it?"  Mrs.  Lakeman 
said,  triumphantly,  and  off  her  guard  for  a  mo- 
ment. "  But  Tom  came  afterwards  and  saw  him, 
too — and  was  quite  choked  off.  It's  extraordinary 
how  completely  the  Vincents  have  gone  smash." 

But  Farley  took  no  interest  in  the  Vincents. 
"Carringford  hangs  about  Lena  far  too  much 
unless  something  is  coming  of  it,"  he  said.  "  I 
should  tell  him  so  if  I  were  you." 

"He's  coming  to  us  in  Scotland  on  the  tenth. 
They'll  have  opportunities  there,"  she  answered, 
carelessly.  "  Let  us  go  and  look  for  her." 

Lena  meanwhile  was  sitting  on  a  grave  in  the 
churchyard,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  in 
her  hands,  looking  out  towards  the  Surrey  hills, 
and  she,  too,  was  thinking  of  Tom  Carringford 
and  Margaret.  She  had  been  uneasy  from  the 
moment  they  had  met  each  other  on  the  embank- 
ment. She  had  seen  Margaret's  beauty  and  Tom's 
recognition  of  it,  and  they  were  something  like 
each  other — well-grown  and  healthy,  a  boy  and 
girl  that  matched.  She  was  not  violently  in  love 
with  Tom  herself,  but  she  simply  couldn't  bear 
that  he  should  escape  her,  and  on  one  pretext  or 
another  she  brought  him  perpetually  to  her  side. 
It  was  easy  enough,  for  they  had  known  each  other 
since  they  were  born,  and  Mrs.  Lakeman  had  helped 
175 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

him  with  the  house  in  Stratton  Street  when  he 
was  left  alone  in  it.  Since  his  father's  death  and 
his  sister's  marriage  she  had  taken  the  place  of  a 
near  relation.  He  knew  that  Lena  liked  him,  but 
it  never  occurred  to  him  that  her  feeling  was  any- 
thing more  —  she  always  squirmed  and  looked 
into  people's  eyes  and  called  them  "dear";  if  it 
had  occurred  to  him  he  would  probably  have  pro- 
posed on  the  spot,  for  there  was  no  particular  rea- 
son why  he  should  not  marry  her,  except  that  she 
was  a  little  too  clinging,  and  too  fond  of  darkened 
rooms  and  limp  clothes.  He  liked  fresh  air  and 
a  straightforwardness  he  could  understand:  there 
were  many  praiseworthy  elementary  qualities  in 
Tom  Carringford. 

"He'll  be  quite  happy  with  us  in  Scotland," 
Lena  said  to  herself.  "We'll  sit  by  the  streams 
or  walk  in  the  woods  all  day ;  he'll  feel  that  we  be- 
long to  each  other  and  tell  me  he  loves  me" — for 
she  was  cloying  even  in  her  secret  thoughts—"  I 
think  we  must  be  married  this  autumn,  then  moth- 
er will  be  free.  I  wonder  if  mother  will  marry 
Dawson  Farley."  Lena  was  sharp  enough,  and 
was  quite  aware  of  the  actor's  vague  intentions, 
little  as  he  imagined  it.  She  looked  up  at  the  wood 
— the  crown — in  the  near  distance,  and  then  at 
the  fields  that  led  to  the  farm.  That  must  be 
Margaret's  wood,  she  thought,  for  Tom,  who 
was  frankness  itself,  had  told  the  Lakemans  of 
176 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

his  visit  to  Chidhurst  and  his  walk  with  Mar- 
garet. 

Lena  would  have  gone  across  the  fields  to  the 
farm,  but  Mrs.  Lakeman,  who  always  had  an  eye 
for  effect,  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"We  will  pay  Mrs.  Gerald  Vincent  a  formal 
visit/'  she  said,  "  in  our  best  clothes  and  new  gloves, 
and  drive  up  to  the  door  properly." 

They  had  hired  an  open  fly  for  the  two  days  they 
were  going  to  stay.  Nothing  could  make  it  impos- 
ing— it  was  just  a  ramshackle  landau,  and  that  was 
all,  and  the  driver  was  the  ordinary  country  fly- 
man. It  happened — though  this  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  Lakemans — that  he  was  the  same  man, 
grown  old,  who  twenty  years  ago  had  taken  the 
elder  Bartons  to  Woodside  Farm  when  they  went 
to  expostulate  with  the  widow  concerning  her  sec- 
ond marriage.  He  thought  of  it  to-day  as  he  went 
down  the  green  lane  and  in  at  the  farm  gates,  for 
afterwards  he  had  come  to  know  with  what  their 
errand  had  been  concerned. 

Mrs.  Lakeman,  with  Lena  beside  her,  sat  on  the 
front  seat,  Dawson  Farley  facing  them.  "  I  never 
believe  in  treating  these  people  carelessly,"  she 
remarked,  as  she  fidgeted  with  her  lace  handker- 
chief— it  was  scented  with  violets — and  held  back 
her  lace  parasol  as  they  drove  in  at  the  gates.  Then 
she  was  almost  startled.  "What  a  lovely  place!" 
177 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

she  exclaimed.  "  Look  at  that  porch,  and  those 
old  windows.  Gerald's  not  such  a  fool,  after  all! 
And  a  Dutch  garden,  too — why,  I  could  live  and 
die  here  myself!" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Mr.  Farley  said,  cynically. 

"It's  just  what  I  thought  it  would  be,"  Lena 
cooed.  "  I  felt  sure  that  Margaret  lived  in  the 
midst  of  flowers." 

They  had  stopped  by  the  porch.  The  front 
door  was  open,  but  not  a  soul  was  visible. 

"You  must  get  down  and  ring  the  bell,  Daw- 
son,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  said,  a  little  puzzled,  as  if 
she  had  expected  the  inhabitants  of  the  house  to 
run  out  and  greet  her.  Then  suddenly  Towsey 
appeared.  Margaret's  hint  had  evidently  taken 
effect,  for  she  wore  the  black  dress  that  she  usually 
kept  for  Sundays,  and  a  white  apron  that  met  be- 
hind her  generous  waist.  Above  the  porch,  from 
the  window  seat  of  her  own  room,  Margaret,  listen- 
ing and  watching,  heard  Mrs.  Lakeman  ask,  in  a 
clear  voice  that  always  seemed  to  have  a  note  of 
derision  in  it:  "Is  Mrs.  Gerald  Vincent  at  home?" 

"  You  are  to  come  in/'  said  Towsey,  brusquely. 

Mrs.  Lakeman  trailed  into  the  living-room,  fol- 
lowed by  Lena  and  Mr.  Farley.  She  looked  at  the 
great  fireplace  piled  with  logs  and  bracken,  at  the 
old-fashioned  chair  on  either  side,  at  the  oak  table 
in  the  middle,  and  the  chest  against  the  wall,  then 
back  at  the  porch  and  the  glorious  view  beyond  it. 
178 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Within,  all  was  dim  and  cool  and  still;  without, 
summer  was  at  its  highest  and  nature  holding 
carnival.  Impressionable  and  quick  to  succumb 
to  influences,  she  was  charmed.  "I  call  this  the 
perfection  of  peace  and  simplicity/'  she  exclaimed, 
as  they  stood  in  a  group  waiting. 

A  door  on  the  left  opened,  a  tall  figure  appeared 
and  hesitated.  Mrs.  Lakeman  went  forward  with 
emotion,  just  as  she  had  done  to  Gerald,  but  there 
was  a  shade  of  fine  patronage  in  her  manner  this 
time.  "It  must  be  Mrs.  Vincent  —  dear  Gerald's 
wife,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Vincent  looked  at  her  visitor  with  calm 
wonderment. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  simply.  "I  suppose  you  are 
a  friend  of  his?  Margaret  thought  you  might 
come." 

"  I  am  Hilda  Lakeman.  You  have  heard  of  me, 
of  course."  Mrs.  Lakeman's  lips  twisted  with 
her  odd  smile.  "You  can  imagine  that  I  wanted 
to  see  you.  I  made  a  point  of  coming  at  once. 
We  are  staying  at  Sir  George  Stringer's  till  Mon- 
day." 

"Perhaps  you  will  come  in,"  Mrs.  Vincent  said, 
a  little  awkwardly.  Mrs.  Lakeman  followed  her 
into  the  best  parlor,  and  looked  round  it  with  sur- 
prise. The  room  was  perfect  in  its  way.  She 
had  pictured  something  more  comfortless. 

"Dear  Gerald's  books,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone 
179 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

to  herself,  glancing  up  at  the  well -filled  shelves 
— "and  his  writing-table  and  reading-chair/'  she 
added,  with  a  thrill.  "The  piano,  I  suppose,  is 
Margaret's?"  she  asked,  with  an  air  of  knowing 
how  to  place  and  value  everything ;  for  on  a  closer 
inspection  she  had  decided  that,  after  all,  Mrs. 
Vincent  was  the  simple  farmer  woman  she  had 
imagined.  She  was  tall,  and  in  the  distance  had 
an  air  of  distinction,  it  was  true;  but  Mrs.  Lake- 
man  felt  it  to  be  a  spurious  one — a  chance  gift  of 
squandering  nature.  Her  eyes  and  mouth  were 
still  beautiful,  but  her  hair  was  gray,  her  throat 
was  brown  and  drawn,  her  shoulders  were  a  little 
bent.  "She  is  quite  an  old  woman/'  Mrs.  Lake- 
man  thought,  triumphantly,  as  she  walked  across 
the  room,  listening  to  the  rustling  of  her  own  dress, 
and  noting  the  stuff  one  clumsily  made — such  as 
a  housekeeper  might  have  worn — in  which  Mrs. 
Vincent  stood  waiting  to  see  what  her  visitors 
would  do  next.  "I  wonder  what  she  thinks  of 
her  prospect  of  being  Lady  Eastleigh?"  Mrs.  Lake- 
man  thought,  and  then,  with  courteous  but  ex- 
treme formality,  and  the  swift  change  of  manner 
that  was  peculiar  to  her,  she  said:  "This  is  my 
daughter,  Mrs.  Vincent  —  she  has  been  looking 
forward  to  seeing  you;  and  I  have  ventured  to 
bring  our  old  friend,  Mr.  Dawson  Farley.  I  am 
sure  it  needs  no  excuse  to  present  so  famous  a  per- 
son to  you — ' 

180 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

She  stopped,  for  Hannah  had  entered  and  stood, 
half  humbly,  half  defiantly,  by  the  door.  Han- 
nah had  dressed  herself  in  her  best,  but  the  blue 
alpaca  frock  and  the  black  alpaca  apron  and  the 
white  muslin  tie  round  her  neck  only  added  to  her 
uneasiness.  Her  hair  was  pulled  well  back,  and 
two  horn  hair-pins  showed  in  the  scanty  knot  into 
which  it  was  gathered  at  the  top. 

"That's  Hannah,"  Mrs.  Vincent  explained, 
"my  daughter  by  my  first  husband." 

"How  do  you  do?"  Mrs.  Lakeman  said,  with  an 
odd  smile,  and  looked  at  her  insolently.  "We 
are  delighted  to  see  you." 

"How  do  you  do?"  Hannah  answered,  grimly. 
"Margaret  thought  you'd  be  coming.  Won't 
you  sit  down?"  She  indicated  seats  to  the  visit- 
ors with  an  air  of  inferiority,  and  a  consciousness 
of  it,  that  was  highly  satisfactory  to  Mrs.  Lakeman, 
whose  dramatic  instincts  were  fast  coming  into  play. 

"Miss — let  me  see — it  was  Miss  Barton,  I  think? 
This  is  my  daughter  Lena,  and  this  is  Mr.  Farley.'* 
Her  manner  was  almost  derisive  as  she  presented 
them.  "Ah!  there  is  our  Margaret.  My  dear!" 
and  she  folded  Margaret  in  her  arms,  "I  told  you 
we  should  come.  You  knew  we  should,  didn't 
you?  It's  such  a  wonderful  thing,"  she  went  on, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Vincent,  "to  see  Gerald's  child." 

"  She's  a  fine,  tall  girl,"  Mrs.  Vincent  answered, 
looking  at  Margaret  with  pride. 
181 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

"  We've  come  to  see  you  in  your  home,  you  lit- 
tle thing,"  Lena  whispered,  and  pulled  Margaret 
gently  towards  her. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  Margaret  answered, 
repelled  immediately.  "  But  if  I'm  a  fine,  tall  girl 
I  can't  be  very  little,  can  I?" 

"You  are  very  sweet,"  Lena  whispered  again, 
and  stroked  her  shoulder.  "You  remember  Mr. 
Farley,  don't  you,  dear?" 

"Oh  yes,"  Margaret  said,  shaking  hands  with 
him. 

"He  is  staying  with  us  till  Monday  morning," 
Mrs.  Lakeman  explained.  "Then  we  are  all  go- 
ing back  together,  very  early,  indeed,  in  order  to 
catch  the  Scotch  express  from  Euston." 

"It's  not  a  long  stay,"  Mrs.  Vincent  said,  with 
the  restraint  in  her  manner  that  was  always  im- 
pressive. "  The  place  is  worth  a  longer  one.  You 
will  come  to  think  so." 

"  I  dare  say,  but  we  must  start  for  Scotland  on 
Monday,  and,  as  I  never  can  travel  at  night,  we 
must  leave  here  in  the  morning  and  go  up  to  town 
by  the  eight  o'clock  train  in  order  to  catch  the  day 
express.  Tom  Carringford  is  coming  over  to- 
morrow afternoon" — and  she  looked  up  at  Mar- 
garet with  a  smile — "  to  dine  and  sleep.  He  is  at 
Frencham  now,  dear  boy;  but  he  said  he  must 
come  and  spend  to-morrow  evening  with  us  and 
go  up  and  see  us  off  in  the  morning."  She  wished 
182 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

Margaret  to  understand  distinctly  that  Tom  be- 
longed to  them. 

"Is  he  going  to  Scotland,  too?"  Margaret  asked, 
rather  lamely,  for  lack  of  something  else  to  say. 

"  Not  with  us.  He  is  so  disappointed,  dear  boy, 
at  not  being  able  to  get  away,  but  he  comes  to  us 
in  a  week  or  two."  She  stopped  for  a  moment 
and  turned  impulsively  to  Mrs.  Vincent.  "But  I 
want  to  talk  about  Gerald,"  she  said.  "He  told 
you  of  his  visit  to  us?  It  was  years  since  I  had  seen 
him —  Mr.  Farley  wanted  to  meet  him  so  much, 
too,"  she  broke  off  to  add,  always  careful  to  in- 
clude every  one  in  the  room  in  her  talk.  "They 
ought  to  have  gone  to  see  him,  of  course — he  had 
a  magnificent  part;  but  Gerald  would  take  Mar- 
garet to  'King  John/  He  thought  it  would 
educate  her  more  and  amuse  her  less,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Is  Mr.  Farley  an  actor?"  Hannah  asked. 

"Dawson,  that  ought  to  take  it  out  of  you!" 
Mrs.  Lakeman  laughed.  "There's  one  place  in 
the  world,  at  any  rate,  where  they  haven't  heard 
of  you."  And  then  turning  to  Hannah,  she  said, 
impressively,  "He  is  the  greatest  romantic  actor 
in  England,  Miss  Barton." 

"It's  a  thing  I  am  not  likely  to  have  heard," 
Hannah  answered.  "I  have  never  entered  a  the- 
atre, or  wished  to  enter  one." 

Lena  made  a  little  sound  of  sympathy.  "I  al- 
183 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

ways  like  the  Puritans/'  she  said.     "They  were 
so  self-denying." 

"I'm  a  very  wicked  person,  perhaps/'  Dawson 
Farley  said,  with  pleasant  cynicism,  that  almost 
won  Hannah  in  spite  of  herself.  "But  all  the 
same,  won't  you  show  us  your  garden,  Miss  Bar- 
ton?" It  seemed  to  him  sheer  insanity  to  come  to 
the  country  and  stay  in-doors. 

"I  wish  you  young  people  would  all  go  to  the 
garden.  I  want  to  talk  to  this  dear  woman  alone, 
and  we  have  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  stay," 
Mrs.  Lakeman  said. 

"You'll  take  a  cup  of  tea?"  Mrs.  Vincent  asked, 
for  it  always  seemed  to  her  that  a  visit  was  a  poor 
thing  unless  it  included  refreshment. 

"  No,  thank  you ;  we  must  get  back.  And  now 
tell  me,"  she  went  on,  when  they  were  alone,  "  what 
does  Gerald  say  about  Cyril?  He  sent  me  a  little 
note  when  he  arrived,  but  he  hadn't  seen  him  then. " 
The  note  was  merely  an  acknowledgment  of  a  sen- 
timental farewell  one  she  had  sent  him,  but  Mrs. 
Lakeman  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  mention  this. 

"He  sent  you  a  note — from  Australia?"  Mrs. 
Vincent  asked,  wonderingly. 

"Of  course  he  did."  She  put  her  hand  on  Mrs. 
Vincent's.  "You  know  what  he  and  I  were  to 
each  other  once?" 

"  What  were  you?"  Mrs.  Vincent  asked,  the  light 
beginning  to  dawn  upon  her. 
184 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"He  didn't  tell  you?"  Mrs.  Lakeman  said,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  Perhaps  he  couldn't  bear  to  speak  of 
it;  but  he  and  I  were  all  the  world  to  each  other 
till  his  opinions  separated  us.  My  father  was 
Dr.  Ashwell,  Bishop  of  Barford — of  course  you 
have  heard  of  him?"  Her  tone  implied  that  even 
in  these  parts  her  father  could  not  have  been  un- 
known. "  He  and  my  mother,  Lady  Mary — she 
was  Lady  Mary  Torbey  before  she  married" — 
the  vulgarity  of  Mrs.  Lakeman's  soul  was  quite 
remarkable — "  were  devoted  to  Gerald ;  we  all  were, 
in  fact,  and  he  was  devoted  to  us.  But  of  course 
it  was  impossible,"  and  she  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  suppose  you  thought  it  would  have  done  you 
harm  to  marry  him,  when  he  didn't  pretend  to  be- 
lieve what  he  didn't  feel  to  be  true?"  Mrs.  Vincent 
said,  in  her  calm,  direct  manner. 

"Well,  you  see — it  couldn't  be."  The  woman 
was  horribly  phlegmatic,  Mrs.  Lakeman  thought. 
She  was  neither  impressed  nor  jealous;  her  atti- 
tude, if  anything,  was  mildly  critical.  "  Of  course, 
I  wasn't  free  to  do  as  I  liked,  as  you  were.  Poor, 
dear  Gerald!  I  know  he  suffered  horribly.  That's 
the  curse  of  a  position  like  ours.  One  has  to  ac- 
cept its  obligations,"  she  added,  loftily. 

"I  didn't  know  that  anything  need  make  one 
unfaithful  to  the  man  who  loved  one,  and  to  whom 
one  was  bound  by  promises." 

"I  thought  so,  too;  but  I  couldn't  break  my 
185 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

father's  heart.  I  have  never  forgiven  myself  " — 
she  tried  hard  to  put  tears  into  her  eyes,  but  they 
would  not  come — "for  I  know  what  he  suffered. 
He  was  a  wanderer  for  years/'  she  went  on,  "and 
never  able  to  settle  down  in  London  again.  I 
suppose  that  was  how  he  found  his  way  here.  Tell 
me  about  your  marriage."  She  gave  a  little  gasp, 
as  if  she  had  screwed  up  courage  to  listen  to  de- 
tails that  would  still  be  harrowing  to  her;  but  a 
gleam  of  amusement  looked  out  of  her  blue  eyes. 
Mrs.  Vincent  saw  it,  and,  little  as  Mrs.  Lakeman 
would  have  imagined  her  to  be  capable  of  it,  she 
understood  its  meaning. 

"  I  shouldn't  care  to  talk  about  it  to  a  stranger," 
she  answered.  "  There  are  things  that  are  sacred 
outside  the  Bible  as  well  as  written  in  it." 

"  I  am  not  a  stranger.  I  can't  be  a  stranger  to 
Gerald  Vincent's  wife."  Mrs.  Lakeman  tried  to 
be  passionate,  but  it  didn't  come  off  very  well.  "  I 
wouldn't  say  it  to  any  one  else  in  the  world,  but 
I've  never  ceased  to  care  for  him,  and  I  don't  be- 
lieve— I  don't  believe,"  she  repeated,  in  a  low  tone, 
"that  he  has  ever  quite  forgotten  me." 

"I  don't  suppose  he  has  forgotten  you,"  Mrs. 
Vincent  answered,  calmly ;  "  but  I  am  certain  that 
he  has  been  faithful  to  his  wife  and  child  here." 

"Of  course  he  has." 

"And  he's  loved  them  all  the  years  he's  known 
them.  You  let  him  go  when  it  would  have  been 
186 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

inconvenient  to  marry  him;  but  he  didn't  marry 
any  one  else  till  he  had  quite  got  over  it.  He's 
not  the  sort  of  man  to  do  anything  dishonorable." 

"Of  course  he  isn't."  Mrs.  Lakeman  began  to 
feel  uncomfortable. 

"And  it's  better  that  what  is  past  and  dead 
should  be  buried,  and  left  unspoken  of.  I  know  " 
— she  looked  Mrs.  Lakeman  straight  in  the  eyes — 
"he  feels  that  everything  was  for  the  best;  and 
he's  been  content  and  happy  here.  He  said  it  not 
three  months  ago,  and  I  think  it  would  have  been 
better  not  to  have  raked  up  bygones." 

"You  are  quite  right/'  Mrs.  Lakeman  said, 
heartily,  for  she  was  a  quick-sighted  woman  and 
rather  enjoyed  being  beaten:  it  made  good  com- 
edy. "You  are  a  most  sensible  woman.  And 
now,  tell  me,  won't  it  seem  odd  to  you  to  be  Lady 
Eastleigh?" 

"I've  not  thought  about  it,"  Mrs.  Vincent  an- 
swered. "  A  living  man  has  the  name  at  present, 
and  I  hope  he'll  keep  it." 

"  I  dare  say  you  would  rather  he  did,"  Mrs.  Lake- 
man said,  patronage  coming  into  her  voice  again. 
"It  would  be  rather  a  difficult  change,"  she  added, 
humorously.  "  Fancy  Gerald,  Lord  Eastleigh,  liv- 
ing at  Woodside  Farm,  with  Miss  Barton  for  his 
step-daughter — the  Gerald  whom  I  remember  with 
every  woman  at  his  feet." 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  would  make  so  much  differ- 
187 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

ence,"  Mrs.  Vincent  answered,  "and  I  hope  he 
won't  call  himself  by  any  other  name  than  the 
one  he  has  been  known  by.  For  my  part,  I  never 
could  see  why  people  set  so  much  store  on  titles. 
The  biggest  lord  that  lives  only  lies  in  one  grave 
at  last,  and  it  isn't  as  if  Gerald  had  a  son  to  come 
after  him,  or  was  coming  to  big  estates  that  had 
to  be  thought  of.  He'll  live  here  again,  and  be 
just  the  same  as  he  always  was."  She  looked 
bravely  at  Mrs.  Lakeman  though  her  heart  was 
sinking,  for  she  knew  that  the  old  life  at  Woodside 
Farm  was  forever  at  an  end.  And  if  he  brought 
this  title  back  with  him,  might  it  not  cause  people 
to  come  round  him  who  had  never  thought  of  com- 
ing before,  people  who  would  think  her  inferior, 
and  let  her  see  what  they  thought,  just  as  this  Mrs. 
Lakeman  did?  She  couldn't  understand  it,  for  the 
pride  of  race  was  in  her,  too.  Had  she  not  come  of 
people  who  had  belonged  to  the  land — God's  beau- 
tiful land — and  spent  their  lives  looking  after  it, 
faithful  to  their  wives,  bringing  up  their  children 
to  do  right?  There  had  not  been  a  stain  on  their 
records  for  generations  past — neither  drunkard 
nor  bankrupt  nor  anything  of  the  sort  had  belonged 
to  them.  Suddenly  she  remembered  Mrs.  Lakeman. 
"Perhaps,  as  you  have  to  go  almost  directly, 
you  would  like  to  see  the  garden,  too?"  She  got 
up,  and  for  a  moment  she  looked  like  an  empress 
putting  an  end  to  an  interview. 
188 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Mrs.  Lakeman  was  carried  away  by  her  manner. 
"You  are  a  very  remarkable  woman/'  she  said, 
almost  generously,  "and  the  most  unworldly  per- 
son I  ever  came  across." 

"  But  you  see  the  fashions  and  things  that  peo- 
ple care  for  in  London  are  not  in  our  way,"  Mrs. 
Vincent  answered,  with  a  smile.  "Are  you  sure 
you  won't  stay  for  a  cup  of  tea?" 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XVII 

"LET  me  sit  in  the  porch  with  Margaret/' said 
Lena,  when  they  came  back  from  their  walk  round 
the  garden;  "I  am  quite  tired.  Take  Mr.  Farley 
to  see  the  cows,  dear  Miss  Barton." 

Hannah  had  stood  by  the  visitors  and  showed 
the  glories  of  the  garden  herself.  It  was  her  place, 
she  thought,  and  time  that  she  proved  it. 

"I  want  to  rest/'  continued  Lena,  "and  to  talk 
to  Margaret  about  her  lover."  She  sat  down  and 
held  out  her  hands.  "Do  come  to  me,  little  Mar- 
garet/' 

"  It's  all  a  mistake,"  Margaret  began,  in  dismay. 

"  Who  is  it  that's  her  lover?"  Hannah  asked, 
looking  up  sharply. 

Lena  scented  an  exciting  track,  and  was  happy. 
"George  Stringer  told  us  about  him.  He  saw 
them  in  the  fields  together. "  She  put  out  her  hands 
again,  but  Margaret  shrank  back  with  something 
that  was  like  horror.  "He  said  you  looked  so 
happy  together,  darling ;  and  you  lingered  behind 
the  hedge  just  as  lovers  always  do." 

"  He  is  not  my  lover,  and  I  hate  him!"  Margaret 
exclaimed. 

190 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Mr.  Garratt  cares  nothing  for  her,  I  can  tell 
you  that,"  said  Hannah,  emphatically. 

"Oh,  but  he  must,"  Lena  answered.  "George 
Stringer  said  you  blushed  so  sweetly  when  you  took 
him  to  the  gate,  and  spoke  of  him,  and  then  Tom — 
our  dear  Tom — told  us  how  Mr.  Garratt  came  to  tea, 
and  he  was  so  careful  not  to  say  that  you  had  taken 
him  to  the  wood  for  fear  there  should  be  jealousy." 

"Miss  Lakeman,  I  want  you  to  understand — " 
Margaret  began. 

"Darling,  you  must  call  me  Lena." 

"That  Mr.  Garratt  comes  here  to  see  Hannah, 
my  half-sister,  and  not  to  see  me." 

"Oh,  but  Tom  said  that  you  and  he  talked  to 
each  other  all  the  time,"  Lena  went  on  in  her  sugary 
voice. 

"This  is  just  what  I  expected,  considering  the 
goings  on,"  Hannah  cried,  almost  losing  control 
over  herself.  "  But  it's  not  Margaret  that  he 
comes  to  see." 

"  No  one  could  come  and  see  any  one  else  when 
she  is  here,"  Lena  whispered  to  herself;  but  Han- 
nah heard,  and  answered  quickly : 

"It's  she  that  puts  heiself  forward  and  forces 
herself  upon  him." 

"Oh,  she  couldn't,  she  looks  so  sweet.  Here 
comes  Mrc  Farley  back  from  his  little  walk.  Shall 
we  ask  him  if  he  thinks  it  possible  that  any  one 
doesn't  love  you?" 

191 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Margaret  turned  and  blazed  at  her.  "Please 
be  silent,"  she  said;  "you  may  not  mean  it,  but 
you  say  things  that  are  simply  dreadful,  and  they 
sound  as  if  you  said  them  on  purpose." 

"111  ask  Tom  about  it  when  he  comes  to-mor- 
row; and  I'll  make  him  come  and  see  you  again 
if  I  can."  Lena  put  on  an  air  of  being  puzzled  and 
a  little  injured.  "  But  we  have  not  seen  each  other 
for  three  days  and  I  want  him  for  myself,  just  as 
Mr.  Garratt  wants  you." 

Margaret  went  forward  and  put  her  hand  on 
Hannah's  arm.  "  She's  doing  it  on  purpose,  Han- 
nah," she  said,  with  distress  in  her  voice,  "and 
because  she  sees  that  it  vexes  you,  and  that  I 
hate  it." 

Lena  was  enjoying  herself  immensely.  "  I  have 
made  you  angry  again,"  she  said;  "but  you  look 
splendid,  just  as  you  did  in  London.  Isn't  she 
beautiful,  Miss  Barton?" 

Hannah  could  hardly  bear  it.  "I  have  never 
been  able  to  see  it,"  she  said,  as  her  mother  and 
Mrs.  Lakeman  entered. 

Dawson  Farley  was  standing  by  the  porch. 
"Are  you  likely  to  come  to  London  again,  Miss 
Vincent?"  he  asked. 

"I  hope  I  shall,  and  soon,"  Margaret  answered; 
and  then  she  went  on  eagerly,  "  I  heard  that  you 
saw  Miss  Hunstan  first  when  she  walked  on  the 
stage  holding  up  a  princess's  train?" 

IQ2 


MARGARE7     VINCENT 

Mr.  Farley  looked  at  her  curiously.  "There  is 
a  princess  in  my  new  piece,"  he  said.  "Do  you 
want  to  come  and  hold  up  her  train?" 

"I  should  love  it!"  she  answered,  and  walked 
up  the  grass-covered  path  with  him. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Lakeman,  too,  was  amusing  her- 
self. "  And  what  do  you  think  of  your  step-father's 
chance  of  coming  into  the  title?"  she  asked  of 
Hannah. 

Mrs.  Vincent's  lips  locked  closely  together,  but 
she  said  nothing. 

"What  title?"     Hannah  looked  up  quickly. 

Mrs.  Lakeman  felt  that  here  was  quite  a  new 
sensation :  she  had  always  been  a  gambler  in  sen- 
sations, an  inveterate  speculator  in  effects. 

"You  know  that  your  step-father  will  be  Lord 
Eastleigh  when  his  brother  dies?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  it.  Why  has  a  mys- 
tery been  made  of  it?" 

"There  has  been  no  mystery  made  of  it,"  Mrs. 
Vincent  said,  firmly.  "I  don't  suppose  father 
will  take  up  the  title,  and,  anyway,  it  needn't  be 
spoken  of  while  the  one  who  has  it  lives.  It  seems 
like  hurrying  him  into  his  grave." 

But  Hannah  was  not  to  be  silenced.  "I  sup- 
pose this  is  why  we  never  heard  anything  of  his 
relations,"  she  said.  "Was  he  ashamed  of  us?" 

"Such  a  thing  never  entered  his  head,"  Mrs. 
Vincent  answered. 

13  193 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"  And  why  did  this  brother,  who  has  got  a  title, 
go  hiding  himself  in  Australia?  Did  he  do  some- 
thing he  oughtn't  to  have  done?" 

"He  never  did  anything  but  spend  his  money 
too  quickly,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  answered.  "  He  made 
an  unlucky  marriage,  of  course — dear  old  Cyril; 
but  heaps  of  men  do  that.  We  must  be  going, 
Mrs.  Vincent.  Some  people  are  coming  to  tea — 
the  Harfords  from  Bannock  Chase;  do  you  know 
them?" 

"  I  see  them  in  church,  but  we  have  not  their  ac- 
quaintance," Mrs.  Vincent  answered.  Mrs.  Lake- 
man told  Dawson  Farley  afterwards  that  she  said 
it  with  the  air  of  a  duchess  who  had  refused  to  call 
upon  them. 

"When  are  you  going  to  be  married,  dear?" 
she  asked  Margaret,  as  she  got  into  the  fly. 
"  George  Stringer  and  Tom  told  us  about  Mr.  Gar- 
ratt." 

"It's  all  a  mistake — "  Margaret  began,  with 
passionate  distress  in  her  voice. 

"Don't  tease  her,"  Lena  cooed,  "she  doesn't 
like  it." 

Mrs.  Lakeman  looked  at  her  with  an  air  of  world- 
ly wisdom  and  said,  significantly,  "I  should  wait 
if  I  were  you.  You'll  be  able  to  do  better  when 
your  father  returns."  She  opened  her  parasol, 
which  was  lined  with  lilac  silk — and  framed  her 
face  in  it.  "Good-bye,  Mrs.  Vincent,  I'm  so 
194 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

glad  to  have  seen  you."  She  made  a  last  effort 
to  put  some  feeling  into  her  voice  and  almost  suc- 
ceeded. 

But  Mrs.  Vincent  only  said  "Good-bye/'  and 
turned  away  almost  before  the  fly  had  started. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XVIII 

BREAKFAST  was  always  half  an  hour  later  on 
Sundays.  Margaret  had  spent  the  early  hours 
in  writing  to  her  father,  telling  him  of  the  impossi- 
bility of  remaining  any  longer  at  Woodside  Farm 
unless  the  relations  between  Mr.  Garratt  and  Han- 
nah were  definitely  settled.  Something  would 
have  to  be  done,  and  immediately,  but  he  was  not 
to  be  distressed  about  her.  She  meant  to  go  to 
Miss  Hunstan  and  to  take  her  advice.  Perhaps 
if  she  could  gather  courage  she  would  consult  Sir 
George  Stringer,  but  it  was  Miss  Hunstan  on  whom 
she  relied,  she  even  asked  her  father  to  direct  his 
next  letter  to  her  care  just  on  the  chance.  The 
morning  was  sultry,  the  notes  of  the  birds  were 
languid,  there  was  not  a  stir  among  the  branches 
though  the  scent  of  flowers  came  stealing  upwards 
from  the  bed  against  the  house.  She  went  to  the 
window  and  leaned  forward  to  catch  any  passing 
breeze  that  might  chance  to  wander  by.  Sudden- 
ly Mrs.  Vincent  and  Hannah  came  out  of  the  porch 
and  stood  just  a  few  yards  below  her.  Hannah 
was  evidently  continuing  a  conversation. 
"  Well,  I've  no  patience  with  them,  mother,  fine 
196 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

folks  giving  themselves  airs  and  ashamed  to  say 
who  they  are  and  what  they've  done;  lord,  or  no 
lord,  he  shall  see  that  I  don't  care  for  his  ways, 
nor  for  Margaret's  either."  All  the  same  there 
was  in  Hannah's  heart  an  odd  feeling  of  curiosity. 
What  would  happen  to  her  when  her  step-father 
was  Lord  Eastleigh?  What  would  the  country 
people  say  to  her,  the  people  who  now  and  then, 
most  politely,  it  is  true,  asked  her  to  accept  a  pres- 
ent for  herself  when  they  paid  a  quarter's  account. 
And  Mr.  Garratt,  what  would  he  say?  He  would 
surely  know  that  Margaret,  with  her  stuck-up 
ways,  would  not  look  at  him  now.  Most  likely 
he  would  think  himself  lucky  to  get  Hannah,  since 
she  would  gain  a  reflected  importance.  But  she 
wasn't  sure,  on  the  whole,  if  she  wanted  him  any 
longer,  and  yet  it  would  be  something  to  make 
sure  of  a  man.  She  couldn't  bear  going  over  to 
Petersfield  and  seeing  women  younger  than  her- 
self, whom  she  remembered  as  girls,  walking  out 
with  their  husbands,  or  nursing  their  children, 
while  she  remained  a  spinster.  "I  do  wonder 
what  Mr.  Garratt  will  have  to  say  to  it  all,"  she 
said,  aloud,  without  meaning  it. 

"  He'll  see  it's  no  good  caring  for  Margaret," 
Mrs.  Vincent  said. 

"Why   should   he?    Not   that  he  does  care," 
Hannah  answered,  quickly.     "She  isn't  any  bet- 
ter than  she  was  yesterday,  nor  than  I  am.     For 
197 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

my  part,  I  think  this  title  business  will  make  us 
the  laughing-stock  of  the  place." 

"  There  is  no  occasion  to  speak  of  it ;  it's  no 
one's  business  but  our  own." 

"I  never  was  one  for  secrets." 

"Neither  was  I,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "But  I 
have  always  found  that  there  was  more  in  silence 
than  in  talk.  I  hope  you  and  Mr.  Garratt  will 
settle  up  soon,  Hannah,  for  these  quarrels  make 
me  miserable." 

"It's  Margaret's  fault,  not  mine,"  Hannah  an- 
swered, doggedly.  "  After  all,  mother,  whatever's 
said,  you  know  that  I'm  fond  of  you.  If  there  had 
been  no  strangers  about  all  these  years,  and  I'd 
had  the  taking  care  of  you  by  myself,  I  could  have 
been  content  enough  without  any  thought  of  mar- 
rying." 

"Jealousy  is  such  a  poor  thing,  Hannah." 

"We  ourselves  are  poor  things  in  the  sight  of 
the  Lord,  mother.  If  Margaret  would  once  come 
to  see  that  she  might  be  different." 

Margaret,  above,  could  stand  it  no  longer.  "  It's 
so  mean  to  be  listening  here,"  she  said  to  herself; 
"and  though  Hannah  was  horrid  last  night  she 
is  rather  better  this  morning,  and  she's  fond  of 
mother.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  that  she  loves  her." 
Then  she  raised  her  voice  and  called  out,  "Good- 
morning,  mother.  I  can  hear  all  you  say.  Let 
us  have  a  happy  Sunday,  Hannah.  I  won't  look 
198 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

at  Mr.  Garratt;  I  will  be  thoroughly  disagreeable 
to  him  if  that  will  please  you."  At  which  Han- 
nah answered,  not  without  a  trace  of  amiability 
and  with  the  nicker  of  a  smile : 

"You  had  better  come  down  to  your  breakfast; 
for  my  part,  I  never  know  why  we  are  so  late  on 
Sunday  mornings/'  As  she  spoke,  Towsey  tin- 
kled a  bell  to  show  that  the  simple  meal  was  ready. 

When  the  breakfast  was  over  and  the  things 
were  put  away  as  usual,  there  was  the  getting  ready 
in  best  clothes,  and  the  starting  of  Hannah  and 
Mrs.  Vincent  across  the  fields  for  church.  Mr. 
Garratt  was  not  coming  till  mid-day,  and  for  the 
first  time  Hannah  took  an  interest  in  Margaret's 
movements. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  the  wood  as  usual?" 
she  asked. 

"I'm  going  there  with  a  book,"  Margaret  an- 
swered. 

Then,  with  anxiety  in  her  voice,  Hannah  said : 
"  I  wish  you'd  take  a  book  that  would  do  you  some 
good." 

"  It  can't  do  me  any  harm."  Margaret  was  de- 
lighted at  finding  Hannah  a  little  softer  than 
usual.  "I'm  going  to  take  Paradise  Lost — it's 
a  poem." 

"It  sounds  very  appropriate,"  Hannah  said, 
solemnly. 

Margaret  blinked  her  eyes  in  astonishment, 
199 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

and  wondered  if  Hannah  were  making  a  joke, 
and  on  the  Sabbath,  too  1  Perhaps,  as  most  people 
are  influenced  by  worldly  matters,  protest  to  the 
contrary  as  they  will,  Hannah  was  somewhat 
soothed  in  her  secret  mind  at  yesterday's  revela- 
tions concerning  the  Vincent  family.  To  be  sure, 
the  Australian  brother  had  gone  away,  according 
to  Mrs.  Lakeman,  because  he  made  an  unlucky 
marriage.  And  Gerald  Vincent  had  lived  quietly 
for  twenty  years  at  Woodside  Farm:  perhaps  he, 
too,  considered  his  marriage  unlucky,  and  in  his 
heart  looked  down  on  her  and  her  mother;  but  even 
that  would  not  undo  the  fact  of  the  relationship, 
or  prevent  the  step-daughter  of  Lord  Eastleigh 
from  being  counted  a  more  important  person  than 
hitherto  when  she  went  to  Petersfield.  There 
were  moments  when  Hannah  had  visions  of  her- 
self as  an  aristocrat  in  an  open  carriage  driving 
through  a  park,  or  going  to  court  in  a  train  and 
feathers;  she  had  often  heard  that  people  wore 
trains  and  feathers  when  they  went  to  court.  Non- 
sense and  vanity  she  called  it,  but  the  momentary 
vision  of  herself  trailing  along  and  the  white  plumes 
nodding  from  her  head  was  pleasant  all  the  same, 
"Well,  we'll  see  when  he  comes  back,"  she 
thought,  as  she  walked  across  the  fields  with  her 
mother.  "If  he  isn't  going  to  call  himself  Lord 
anything,  and  is  going  to  live  on  here  all  the  same, 
I  may  as  well  marry  Mr.  Garratt  and  be  done  with 
200 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

it — that  is,  if  he  behaves  himself  properly.-  He's 
getting  a  good  business  round  him  at  Guildford, 
and  we'll  hardly  rank  as  tradespeople  when  they 
know  who  I  am.  Mother/'  she  said,  aloud,  "  you'll 
not  be  staying  on  at  the  farm  if  what  this  Mrs. 
Lakeman  said  is  true,  and  father  comes  back 
with  a  title?" 

"Nothing  will  ever  take  me  away  from  it," 
Mrs.  Vincent  answered;  "and  father  will  be  just 
the  same  when  he  comes  back,  whether  his  brother 
be  living  or  dead.  I'm  sorry  you  know  anything 
about  it,  Hannah,  for  it  won't  make  any  difference 
one  way  or  another." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XIX 

LENA  LAKEMAN,  haunting  the  green  landscape 
like  an  uneasy  spirit,  watched  Mrs.  Vincent  and 
Hannah  go  into  the  church.  "I  wonder  what 
little  Margaret  does  with  her  morning  when  she's 
left  alone?"  she  thought,  as  she  went  through 
the  gate  that  led  across  the  fields,  and  played 
about  the  field  searching  for  clover,  counting 
the  blades  in  a  tuft  of  grass,  or  resting  beneath 
the  outreaching  hedge  of  honeysuckle  like  a  lizard. 
From  sheer  sleepiness,  she  stayed  there  almost 
without  moving  till  presently  she  heard  the  coun- 
try voices  in  church  singing  "Oh,  be  joyful  in 
the  Lord  all  ye  lands."  She  opened  her  eyes  then 
and  looked  at  the  beauty  round  her.  The  land  did 
rejoice,  she  thought  —  in  the  summer  time.  If 
God  would  only  let  it  last  His  people  would  rejoice 
all  the  year  round ;  but  how  could  they,  how  could 
they  be  religious,  when  the  climate  was  bad?  Per- 
haps one  reason  why  Roman  Catholics  took  their 
religions  so  closely  into  their  lives  was  that  it  had 
generated  in  those  places  that  were  filled  with 
sunshine. 

The  voices  had  ceased.     She  tried  to  remember 
202 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

the  order  of  the  prayers,  so  that  she  might  know 
how  much  longer  the  worshippers  had  to  stay, 
but  she  could  not  hear  with  sufficient  distinctness 
to  recognize  the  words.  Suddenly  there  was  the 
sound  of  wheels  coming  towards  the  church  and 
the  road  that  led  to  the  farm.  She  sat  up  and 
listened,  then  knelt  and  looked  through  the  hedge 
till  she  saw,  going  along  at  a  brisk  pace,  a  fat  gray 
pony  and  a  little  dog-cart,  in  which  sat  a  spruce 
young  man  with  a  handkerchief  looking  out  of 
his  pocket,  a  flower  in  his  button-hole,  and  a  bowler 
hat  stuck  jauntily  on  his  head. 

"  It's  Mr.  Garratt/'  she  exclaimed,  "  he's  going 
to  see  Margaret ;  they  will  have  a  happy  time  to- 
gether while  the  others  are  at  church. ' '  She  watch- 
ed the  dog-cart  vanish  in  the  distance,  then  stole 
along  the  field,  keeping  close  to  the  hedge  lest  she 
should  be  observed  from  the  farm.  And  suddenly 
a  thought  struck  her.  "Margaret  will  take  him 
to  her  wood,"  she  said  to  herself;  "presently  I 
should  find  them  together,  but  they  mustn't  see 
me  coming." 

She  crossed  the  field  twenty  minutes  later,  keep- 
ing close  to  the  hedge  so  as  not  to  be  seen,  and 
made  for  the  high  ground.  On  the  side  of  the  hill 
a  young  copse  grew,  reaching  up  to  the  great  trees 
that  Margaret  called  her  cathedral;  the  under- 
growth of  bracken  and  briar  went  up  with  it  and 
formed  a  green  wall  round  the  summit.  Between 
203 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

the  columns  of  the  cathedral,  and  over  the  green 
wall,  the  sweet  country-side  could  be  seen  stretching 
long  miles  away  to  the  blue  hills,  with  here  and 
there  a  patch  of  white  suggesting  a  homestead, 
or  a  speck  of  red  that  betrayed  a  cottage. 

Lena  went  up  softly  and  slowly,  so  that  the 
stir  of  the  vegetation  might  not  betray  her,  till 
suddenly  she  heard  voices.  She  stopped  and 
listened,  then  went  on  still  more  cautiously  till 
there  was  only  a  screen  of  green  between  her  and 
the  speakers.  Then  she  dropped  among  the 
bracken  and  was  completely  hidden,  though  she 
could  hear  perfectly.  Margaret  was  speaking, 
and  her  voice  was  indignant — 

"This  is  my  wood;  it  belongs  to  me." 

"Oh,  come  now!" 

"  How  did  you  know  where  to  find  me?" 

"Hannah  told  me  herself;  she  said  you  spent 
your  mornings  up  here  instead  of  going  to  church, 
so  I  thought  I'd  just  look  in." 

Lena,  peeping  through  the  greenery,  could  see 
that  they  stood  facing  each  other  —  Margaret, 
with  her  head  thrown  back,  resting  one  hand 
against  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  On  the  gnarled  roots 
that  rose  high  from  the  ground,  and  had  evidently 
formed  her  seat,  lay  an  open  book.  Mr.  Garratt, 
with  a  triumphant  expression,  stood  a  few  paces 
off. 

"You  must  go  back  instantly,"  Margaret  said. 
204 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Not  I!  Come,  let's  sit  down  and  have  a  quiet 
little  talk — we  don't  often  get  the  chance." 

"Mr.  Garratt,  please  —  please  go  away,"  she 
said,  "  why  should  you  try  to  annoy  me  as  you  do. 
You  came  here  to  see  Hannah — " 

"  Well  I  don't  come  now  to  see  Hannah — " 

"Then  you  had  better  stay  away — " 

"  I  should  like  to  stay  away  if  I  had  you  with 
me.  Look  here,  don't  cut  up  rusty  or  be  silly. 
I'm  not  a  bad  sort  of  chap,  you  know,"  and  he 
tugged  at  his  mustache ;  "  lots  of  girls  have  rather 
fancied  me,  but  I've  never  cared  a  bit  for  one  of 
them,  though  I've  chaffed  them  a  little  now  and 
then,  because  I've  liked  to  make  them  mad." 

"I  don't  care  what  you  like,  and  I  want  you  to 
go  away." 

"  But  I  mean  business  this  time,  give  you  my 
word  I  do.  I'm  awfully  fond  of  you  and  I'll  tell  'em 
so  when  we  get  back  if  you'll  say  it's  all  right — " 

"  It's  not  all  right!"  Margaret  cried,  passionately. 

"Well,  you  needn't  take  on  so — you're  awfully 
pretty."  He  went  a  step  nearer.  "I  say,  give 
me  a  kiss  to  go  on  with." 

"I  would  rather  die,"  and  she  drew  back  closer 
to  the  trunk  of  the  tree. 

"  Well,  you  needn't  shudder  as  if  I  were  snakes 

or  coal-tar;  you  may  not  know  it,  young  lady, 

but  you  are  not  everybody's  money,  in  spite  of 

your  good  looks.     I'm  not  a  stickler  myself,  still 

205 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

it  isn't  all  plain  sailing  marrying  a  girl  who  won't 
go  into  a  church,  and  whose  family  is  a  mystery. 
It  would  not  add  to  the  business,  I  assure  you." 

"My  family  a  mystery?"  said  Margaret.  Lena 
cocked  up  her  head  like  a  snake  and  looked 
through  the  leaves ;  she  could  see  them  quite  plain- 
ly. "  How  dare  you — " 

"Oh,  well,  we  won't  say  anything  more  about 
it  if  you're  going  to  explode.  Still,  there  may  be 
all  sorts  of  crimes  covered  up  for  what  we  know 
to  the  contrary,  and  I  understand  that  the  farm 
will  belong  to  Hannah  by  and  by — " 

"And  that's  why  you  thought  of  marrying  her, 
I  suppose?"  she  asked,  indignantly. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  he  answered  triumphantly, 
"  but  I'd  rather  have  you  with  nothing  at  all. 
I'm  quite  gone  on  you,  Margaret;  I  am, indeed." 

"How  dare  you  call  me  Margaret?" 

"  All  right,  then  I'm  very  fond  of  you,  ducky; 
will  that  do?  And  I'll  marry  you  to-morrow  if 
you  like — get  a  special  license,  wake  up  the  parson, 
and  off  we  go.  You've  only  got  to  say  the  word. 
Now,  come,  give  us  a  kiss  and  say  it's  all  right. 
I'm  not  a  bad  sort,  I  tell  you,  and  I'm  bound  to 
get  on,  and  we'll  do  all  manner  of  things  when  we 
are  married — you  bet.  Come  now?" 

"Mr.  Garratt,"  Margaret  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  it's  very  kind  of  you  to  want  to  marry  me,  but — 
but  I  want  you  to  understand,"  and  the  hot  tears 
206 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

rushed  down  her   flushed  cheeks,  "that  I  simply 
can't  bear  you." 

"That's  a  straight  one — you  do  give  them  out, 
you  know." 

"And  I  wouldn't  marry  you  for  the  world," 
she  went  on;  "either  you  must  make  it  up  with 
Hannah,  or  you  must  leave  off  coming  here." 
She  had  brushed  away  her  tears,  and,  flushed 
and  haughty,  looked  him  imploringly  in  the  face. 

"Oh,  I  say,  don't  go  on  like  this;  I  wouldn't 
make  you  unhappy  for  the  world,"  and  he  went  a 
step  forward. 

"Oh,  do  keep  back!"  she  said  with  another 
shudder.  "I  hate  you — " 

"  All  right,  hate  me,"  his  wounded  vanity  getting 
the  better  of  him,  "but  I'll  have  something  for 
my  pains  at  any  rate,"  and  in  a  moment  he  had 
darted  forward  and  tried  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms. 

Margaret  gave  a  cry  of  fright  that  ended  in  one 
of  astonishment,  for  suddenly  the  leaves  that 
formed  a  low  wall  half-way  round  her  cathedral 
parted  and  Lena  appeared. 

"You  mustn't  be  so  cruel!"  she  cried.  He  let 
go  Margaret  and  stood  gaping  at  Lena,  who  crossed 
over  to  the  tree. 

"  I  said  you  would  have  to  love  us,  little  Margaret ; 
I've  come  to  rescue  you,"  she  said,  and  put  her 
arms  round  Margaret,  to  whom  it  seemed  as  if  her 
Eden  were  full  of  serpents. 
207 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  should  like  to  know 
who  the  deuce  you  are,  miss?"  said  Mr.  Garratt, 
astonished,  but  not  in  the  least  confused. 

"I'm  Margaret's  friend,"  Lena  answered,  in 
her  sugary  voice. 

"And  what  business  is  this  of  yours?"  he  in- 
quired, insolently. 

"I  know  her  father  and  I  know  her.  Darling," 
she  said,  pulling  Margaret  towards  her,  "I  told 
you  in  London  it  was  always  best  to  tell  every- 
thing about  yourself,"  and  then  she  turned  to 
Mr.  Garratt.  "She  doesn't  go  to  church;  it's 
very  wrong  of  her,  but  she  would  go  if  she  were 
coaxed.  Perhaps  she'll  go  with  me  some  day. 
And  there  isn't  any  mystery  about  her  faanily. 
It's  a  very,  very  old  one,  isn't  it,  dear?"  she  said, 
looking  at  Margaret.  "It  came  over  with  the 
Conqueror." 

"Well,  mine  may  have  scudded  about  with 
Noah's  for  all  I  know  to  the  contrary.  What's 
that  got  to  do  with  it?"  Mr.  Garratt  asked. 

"He  means  it  for  a  joke,  darling,"  Lena  said  to 
Margaret.  "He  doesn't  mean  to  be  rude — " 
She  stood  with  her  arms  round  Margaret,  looking 
with  soft  reproachf ulness  at  Mr.  Garrett. 

"Look  here,  I'm  off,"  he  said  with  a  sudden  in- 
spiration; "good-morning,"  and  in  a  moment  he 
had  disappeared  down  the  direct  pathway  towards 
the  farm. 

208 


MARGARET    YINCENT 


XX 

HANNAH  in  the  porch  saw  him  coming. 

"Mr.  Garratt,"  she  said,  severely,  "have  you 
been  for  a  walk?  I  thought  I  heard  the  pony 
go  by  when  we  were  in  church." 

"  Yes,  I've  been  for  a  walk,"  he  answered,  huffily, 
for  he  was  beginning  to  feel  that  matters  at  Wood- 
side  Farm  were  a  little  too  much  for  him. 

"Towsey  says  you  went  out  directly  the  pony 
was  put  to." 

"  That's  all  right.     What  then?" 

"Where's  Margaret?" 

"Up  in  the  wood  there,"  he  said,  nodding  tow- 
ards it,  "with  a  young  lady  who,  judging  from 
her  conversation,  has  swallowed  a  bottle  of  soothing 
syrup  and  let  the  cork  come  out  inside  her." 

"And  what  did  you  go  up  to  the  wood  for?" 
Hannah  asked,  severely. 

"Because  I  chose.  Look  here,  Miss  Barton,  I 
don't  want  to  be  cross-examined,  if  you  please." 

"  Well,  what  I  should  like  to  know  is — to  speak 
plainly  —  what  are  you  coming  here  for,  Mr. 
Garratt?" 

"That's  my  business,"  he  answered.  "If  you 
M  209 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

like  I'll  put  the  pony  to  at  once  and  be  done  with 
it,  though,  on  the  whole,  I  should  prefer  having 
some  dinner  first,  seeing  that  I've  come  a  good 
way."  After  all,  Mr.  Garratt  had  a  fair  temper,  for 
he  said  the  last  words  with  a  smile  that  somewhat 
pacified  Hannah,  who,  seeing  that  she  was  likely 
to  get  the  worst  of  it,  drew  in  her  horns. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  disagreeable,"  she  said, 
"  but  really  it's  difficult  to  understand  all  the  goings 
on  here." 

"That's  just  what  I  think.  Who  is  that  girl 
with  Margaret?  She  was  just  like  a  snake  spring- 
ing up  from  the  green  and  wriggling  about — said 
she  knew  Vincent." 

Then  Hannah,  being  somewhat  further  pacified, 
told  him  the  history  of  yesterday's  visit. 

"Well,  I'm  jiggered,"  Mr.  Garratt  answered, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation.  "I  told  you  there 
was  something  behind  it  all.  This  brother  of  his, 
Lord  Eastleigh — of  course  I'm  on  to  him  directly. 
He  was  an  awful  rummy  lot — married  Bella  Bar- 
rington,  who  used  to  sing  at  the  Cosmopolitan  in 
the  Hornsey  Road.  A  pretty  low  lot,  I  can  tell 
you.  Well,  I  am — " 

"Mr.  Garratt,"  said  Hannah  horrified,  "they 
are  a  set  of  people  we  should  have  nothing  to  do 
with." 

"  Rubbish.     Margaret  will  be  a  toff. " 

"There's  no  money  with  it." 
210 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Well,  that's  a  pity,"  he  said,  "but  it  won't 
take  the  title  away  from  them.  I  always  knew 
they  were  somebodies." 

"Hannah,"  said  Towsey,  coming  from  the  kitch- 
en, for  it  was  only  to  Margaret  that  she  gave  a  re- 
spectful prefix, "  I'm  ready  for  you  to  mix  the  salad. " 

"You'd  better  go,"  said  Mr.  Garratt,  "I've  got 
no  end  of  an  appetite — I'll  just  take  a  stroll  to 
the  end  of  the  garden  to  improve  it."  For  as 
Hannah  turned  her  head  he  had  seen  Margaret 
coming  towards  the  gate  of  the  Dutch  garden, 
and  Mr.  Garratt  was  a  politic  young  man. 

"Miss  Margaret,"  he  said,  deferentially,  "I 
want  to  apologize  for  what  I  said  just  now  about 
your  family  and  about  your  not  going  to  church — 
it  was  my  feelings  that  carried  me  away.  I've 
just  heard  who  you  are.  I  always  said  you  looked 
like  a  somebody;  you  may  remember  that  I  told 
you  so  that  day  going  across  the  fields.  And 
as  for  not  going  to  church,  why,  I  quite  agree 
with  what  I  believe  Mrs.  Vincent  thinks,  that  it's 
what  one  does  outside  it  that  matters,  not  what 
one  does  inside." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  say  all  this,  Mr.  Garratt, 
but  please  let  me  pass."  He  walked  beside  her 
down  the  green  pathway. 

"You    know   what   my   feelings   have    always 
been,"  he  said,  "and  if  true  devotion — "  he  felt 
as  if  this  were  the  right  line. 
211 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Please  don't  say  anything  more."  She  was 
almost  distressed,  for  through  the  porch  in  the 
dim  background  she  could  see  Hannah's  wrathful 
figure. 

"If  true  devotion  counts  for  anything,"  he 
went  on,  "why,  you'd  get  it  from  me.  I  under- 
stand there  isn't  any  money  to  come  with  this 
title,  and  it  isn't  going  to  make  any  difference  in 
anything,  and  you'll  want  some  one  to  love  you 
just  the  same.  We  all  want  that,  Miss  Margaret, 
and — " 

"Margaret,  you'd  better  come  in  and  not  keep 
dinner  waiting,"  Hannah  called,  shrilly.  "  I  should 
have  thought  you  had  had  enough  of  Mr.  Garratt, 
meeting  him  up  in  the  wood  when  other  people 
were  in  church." 

Mr.  Garratt  was  very  silent  at  dinner.  He  had 
to  decide  on  his  own  course  of  action.  He  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  safest  plan  was  to  pro- 
pitiate everybody,  but  it  took  his  breath  away 
to  think  that  he,  Jimmy  Garratt,  house  agent  of 
Petersfield  and  Guildford,  grandson  on  his  mother's 
side  of  James  Morgan,  grocer  at  Midhurst,  wanted 
to  marry  Miss  Margaret  Vincent,  as  he  now  de- 
scribed her  to  himself;  still,  there  would  be  noth- 
ing lost  by  going  on  with  it;  besides,  he  was 
a  good-looking  chap,  lots  of  girls  liked  him,  and, 
after  all,  Margaret  hadn't  any  money.  It  would 
be  a  good  move,  he  thought,  to  get  her  over  to 
212 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Guildford  and  let  her  see  the  house  ;  it  had  a  real 
drawing-room  and  a  conservatory  going  out  of  it, 
and  he  could  afford  to  let  her  spend  a  little  money ; 
she  should  do  anything  she  liked,  and  if  people 
got  on  in  these  days  it  didn't  matter  what  they  were 
in  the  beginning.  There  were  lots  of  them  in  Par- 
liament who  were  nobodies,  why  shouldn't  he  get 
into  Parliament,  too,  some  day — he  had  always 
been  rather  good  at  speaking,  and  for  matter  of 
that  he  might  get  a  title  of  his  own  in  the  end? 
He  had  only  to  make  money  and  get  his  name  into 
the  papers,  and  give  a  lot  to  some  charity  that 
royalty  cared  about,  and  there  he'd  be. 

"You  are  very  absent  to-day,  Mr.  Garratt," 
Hannah  said,  as  she  gave  him  a  large  helping 
of  raspberry  and  currant  tart. 

"It's  very  warm,  Miss  Barton;  very  warm,  in- 
deed." 

"I  always  find,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  unlocking 
her  beautiful  lips,  and  looking  like  a  woman  in  a 
legend,  with  her  gray  hair  and  high  cheek  bones, 
"that  the  summer  is  a  time  for  thinking  more 
than  talking." 

"You  are  right,  Mrs.  Vincent;  don't  you  agree, 
Miss  Margaret?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Margaret  answered,  carelessly. 
"  The  summer  is  lovely,  of  course ;  it  always  seems 
as  if  the  world  had  rolled  itself  up  a  little  bit  nearer 
to  heaven — " 

213 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  believe  in  any  such  place/' 
said  Hannah,  sharply. 

Mrs.  Vincent  looked  at  her  younger  daughter 
with  fond  eyes.  "One's  heart  sometimes  believes 
one  thing  and  one's  head  another/'  she  said.  But 
Margaret  ate  her  tart  in  silence,  and  Mr.  Garratt, 
still  weighing  the  chances  of  his  future,  followed 
her  example. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XXI 

THE  Sunday  tea  was  over.  Hannah  had  suc- 
cessfully monopolized  Mr.  Garratt  all  the  after- 
noon. He  was  becoming  desperate.  "She  would 
drive  a  fellow  mad,"  he  thought;  "why, the  way 
she  tramps  into  that  kitchen  with  the  tea  things 
is  enough  to  send  any  one  a  mile  off  her  track. 
I  should  get  the  staggers  if  I  married  her ;  besides, 
she  wouldn't  let  one  call  one's  soul  one's  own 
by  the  time  she  was  forty."  He  looked  towards 
the  door  of  the  best  parlor.  Mrs.  Vincent  and 
Margaret  were  there ;  he  got  up  and  went  in  bold- 
ly. "May  I  venture  to  ask  for  a  little  music?"  he 
asked. 

Margaret  had  risen  quickly  as  he  entered.  "  Oh, 
but  it's  Sunday,"  she  answered. 

"I  thought  perhaps  there  wouldn't  be  any  ob- 
jection to  something  sacred,"  he  said.  His  manner 
was  respectful,  and  altogether  different  from  that 
of  the  morning ;  and  he  had  been  attentive  to  Han- 
nah all  the  afternoon — which  was  soothing  to  Mar- 
garet. 

"We  used  to  sing  and  play  hymns  in  mother's 
time,"  Mrs.  Vincent  said;  "the  old  piano  was 
215 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

only  given  to  the  school  when  James  died.  It 
was  worn  out  and  I  thought  they'd  be  glad  of  it." 
The  sequence  was  not  quite  clear,  but  no  one  per- 
ceived it.  "  I  wish  you  could  play  hymns,  Margey. " 

"Oh,  but  I  can  play  something  that  is  quite 
beautiful,"  she  answered,  and  went  towards  the 
piano. 

"Allow  me/'  Mr.  Garratt  said,  opening  it. 

He  stood  behind  her  in  an  attitude  while  Cho- 
pin's magnificent  chords  rolled  upward — to  Gerald 
Vincent's  books,  and  down  to  the  gray -haired 
woman  in  the  chintz-covered  chair,  before  they 
stole  out  of  the  open  window  into  the  Dutch  garden 
and  the  indefinite  wood  beyond,  as  if  they  sought 
the  cathedral. 

"Margaret,"  cried  Hannah,  hurrying  from  the 
kitchen,  "close  the  piano  at  once.  Sunday  is 
no  time  for  playing." 

"It's  nothing  frivolous,"  said  Margaret;  "it's 
a  funeral  march." 

"  I'll  not  have  it  done,"  Hannah  answered  dogged- 
ly, always  jealous  of  Margaret's  accomplishments. 
''  There's  a  shake  in  it,  and  it's  a  piece  only  fit 
for  week-days." 

"People  used  to  be  buried  on  Sundays;  what 
harm  can  there  be  in  a  funeral  piece?"  Mrs.  Vincent 
asked. 

"  It  was  played  at  my  request,"  said  Mr.  Garratt. 
"  Til  ask  for  it  next  time  on  a  week-day,  Miss  Mar- 
216 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

garet.  I  shall  be  here  again  soon/'  he  added,  in  a 
lower  tone. 

Hannah  went  up  to  the  piano,  locked  it  and  put 
the  key  into  her  pocket.  "Mr.  Garratt,"  she  said, 
turning  upon  him,  "I  think  you  had  better  make 
up  your  mind  who  it  is  you  come  to  see  week-days 
or  Sundays,  then  we  shall  know." 

"I've  known  all  along,"  he  said,  casting  pru- 
dence to  the  winds. 

"Well,  then,  you'd  better  speak  and  be  done 
with  it." 

"It  isn't  you,  Miss  Barton ;  so  now  you  know." 

Mrs.  Vincent  stood  up  and  looked  at  him,  grave 
and  distressed. 

"  And,  pray,  who  is  it?"  Hannah  asked ;  it  seemed 
a  needless  question,  but  nothing  else  suggested 
itself  and  something  had  to  be  said. 

"  Well,  since  you  want  to  know,  it's  Miss  Vincent. 
I've  been  in  love  with  her  from  the  first  moment  I 
set  eyes  on  her,  and  that's  the  truth.  As  for  you, 
Miss  Barton,  your  temper  is  a  little  more  than  I 
can  stand,  and  I  wouldn't  be  hired  to  live  with 
you." 

"Mr.  Garratt — "  Mrs.  Vincent  began. 

"Mrs.  Vincent,"  he  said,  turning  round  on  her 
sharply,  "let  me  speak.  I  came  here  to  look  after 
Miss  Barton,  I  frankly  confess  it;  but  I  wasn't  in 
love  with  her,  I  only  wanted  to  be,  and  I've  found 
out  that  I  can't  be.  It's  no  good,  her  temper  is 
217 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

altogether  more  than  I  could  risk,  so  now  I've 
said  it." 

"Hannah,  it's  not  my  fault,"  Margaret  said, 
going  towards  the  door,  and  feeling  that  absence 
would  again  be  the  better  part  of  valor. 

"Stop,  please,  Miss  Vincent,"  Mr.  Garratt  ex- 
claimed. "May  I  beg  you  to  remain  a  minute?" 
He  shut  the  door  and  stood  with  his  back  to  it, 
boldly  facing  the  three  women  before  him :  Mrs. 
Vincent  in  calm  astonishment,  Hannah  petrified 
but  scarlet  with  rage  and  dismay,  and  Margaret 
feeling  that  a  crisis  had  indeed  come  at  last  but 
not  able  to  restrain  a  little  unwilling  admiration 
for  Mr.  Garratt's  courage.  "I  want  you  to  hear 
what  I  have  to  say,"  he  went  on;  "Mrs.  Vincent, 
I  love  Miss  Margaret.  I  think  she  is  the  most 
beautiful  girl  in  the  world — the  most  beautiful 
young  lady  she  would  like  me  to  say,  perhaps; 
but  I  can't  see  that  what  I  have  heard  about  her 
to-day  makes  any  difference,  and  I  told  her  what 
I  thought  of  her  this  morning  in  the  wood  before 
I  knew  anything  about  her  family — " 

"Oh!"  came  a  note  of  rage  from  Hannah. 

"And  I've  told  her  so  at  every  other  chance 
I've  had  of  saying  it,  which  hasn't  been  very  often, 
for  she  wouldn't  give  me  any,  and  Hannah  has 
kept  hold  of  me  —  as  tight  as  a  dog  does  of  a 
rat.  But  I  love  Miss  Margaret,  I  love  the  ground 
she  walks  on,  and  I'll  marry  her  to-morrow  if 
218 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

she'll  have  me."  Mr.  Garratt  had  become  vehe- 
ment. 

"I  wouldn't — I  wouldn't — "  Margaret  said  under 
her  breath,  but  he  took  no  notice. 

"And  I'll  never  give  up  the  hope  of  her.  I'm 
happy  to  hear  that  though  she's  likely  to  be  the 
daughter  of  a  lord,  she's  not  likely  to  have  any 
money,  so  it  can't  be  thought  that  I'm  looking 
after  that.  I  don't  want  a  penny  with  her.  I 
understand  that  the  farm  is  going  to  be  Miss  Bar- 
ton's, and  I  hope  she'll  keep  it.  I  want  Margaret 
and  I  want  her  just  as  she  is  and  without  a  penny. 
I  don't  care  what  I  do  for  her,  nor  how  hard  I  work. 
I  can  make  her  comfortable  now — and  I'll  make 
her  rich  some  day — " 

"Mr.  Garratt,  it's  all  impossible  1"  Margaret 
broke  in. 

"  You  say  so  now,  Miss  Margaret/'  he  answered ; 
"  but  when  you  come  to  think  it  over  perhaps  you'll 
feel  different.  And  you'll  see  that  in  talking  to 
Hannah  I've  only  been  trying  to  do  what  I  came 
to  do,  but  I  can't  go  on  with  it,  and  there's  an  end 
of  it.  It's  no  good  saying  I  don't  love  you,  for  I 
do,  and  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  say  it  either. 
I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  to  get  you,  and  every- 
thing in  the  world  when  I  had  got  you.  I'm  going 
away  now,"  he  said,  quickly,  suddenly  opening 
the  door,  "but  I'll  write  to  you  to-morrow,  Miss 
Margaret,  and  you'd  better  think  over  what  I  say 
219 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

in  the  letter.  You  needn't  think  you'll  be  standing 
in  Hannah's  way,  for  I'd  rather  be  roasted  on  a 
gridiron  than  marry  her.  Good-night,  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent ;  1 1  hope  you'll  forgive  me.  Miss  Barton,  I 
wish  you  a  very  good-evening.  I  know  the  way 
to  the  stables,  and  can  put  the  pony  to  myself." 
He  stood  holding  the  door  to  for  a  moment,  then 
opened  it,  and  with  something  like  real  passion 
in  his  voice — it  swept  over  his  listeners  and  con- 
vinced them — he  added :  "Miss  Margaret,  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  it,  I'm  proud  of  it,  and  I  look  back  to 
say  before  every  one  once  more  that  I  love  you, 
more  than  I  ever  thought  to  love  anybody  in  the 
world,  and  I'd  rather  marry  you  than  have  ten 
thousand  a  year.  Good-bye."  He  shut  the  door, 
and  a  minute  later  they  saw  him  go  slowly  past 
the  window  on  his  way  to  the  stable. 

As  if  by  common  consent  they  waited  and  lis- 
tened for  the  sound  of  Mr.  Garratt's  departing 
wheels.  It  seemed  to  form  an  accompaniment  to 
Hannah's  wrath,  which  burst  forth  with  his  de- 
parture. 

That  night,  while  Hannah  was  still  testing  the  bolts 
below,  Margaret  went  softly  into  her  mother's  room. 
"Mother,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "I  want  to  tell 
you  something,  and  you  mustn't  be  unhappy, 
you  must  just  trust  me,  darling ;  I  shall  never  be 
in  Hannah's  way  again,  for  I  shall  go  to  London." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"It  would  break  my  heart!"  Mrs.  Vincent  said, 
with  almost  a  sob.  "I'm  growing  old,  and  am  not 
so  strong  as  I  used  to  be.  I  couldn't  bear  to  part 
from  you." 

"But,  mother  dear,  I  cannot  stay  here  any 
longer."  She  lifted  her  mother's  hands  and  kissed 
her  fingers.  "I  cannot,  darling!" 

"But  where  would  you  go  in  London?"  Mrs. 
Vincent  asked,  for  she  herself  felt  the  impossibility 
of  peace  at  Woodside  Farm  while  Margaret  re- 
mained and  her  husband  was  absent. 

"I  shall  go  to  Miss  Hunstan  first.  Sometimes 
I  think  I  should  like  to  be  an  actress,  too." 

"You  mustn't,  Margaret!"  Mrs.  Vincent  cried 
in  terror.  "Hannah  would  never  let  you  enter 
the  house  again,  for  she  says  that  play-actors 
come  from  Satan  and  go  to  him  again  when 
their  day  is  done." 

Hannah  came  up-stairs  and  stood  in  the  doorway. 
Margaret  faced  her  with  her  arm  round  her  mother's 
shoulder. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  asked. 

"  Leave  me  alone, "  Margaret  said,  gently.  "  To- 
morrow I  shall  go  to  London." 

"And  what  will  you  do  there?  You  that  never 
did  a  day's  work  in  a  week,  or  said  a  prayer  on 
Sundays,  or  asked  a  blessing  on  a  meal,  and  that 
belong  to  those  who  are  ashamed  to  let  people  know 
what  they  are.  Is  your  head  turned  because 
221 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

Mr.  Garratt  has  been  carried  away  by  your  ways 
and  artfulness." 

"I'll  leave  him  to  you,  Hannah,  and  go  away 
to-morrow." 

"I'll  take  care  that  you  do  nothing  of  the  sort. 
You  will  stay  here  till  your  father  comes  back 
and  learn  to  behave  yourself." 

Margaret  made  no  answer.  She  pushed  her 
mother  gently  down  into  the  big  chair  by  the  ward- 
robe and  knelt  by  her  and  kissed  her  gray  hairs 
and  the  thin  face  and  the  muslin  round  her  throat 
and  the  fringe  of  the  shawl  that  was  about  her 
shoulders. 

"Come,  get  to  your  bed,"  Hannah  said;  "we 
don't  want  to  be  kept  here  all  night." 

"Good-bye,"  Margaret  whispered  to  her  mother, 
kissing  her  softly  once  again.  Then  she  rose 
and  slowly  walked  away.  "Good -night,"  she 
said  to  Hannah  over  her  shoulder  as  she  went  to 
her  own  room. 

"I'll  lock  her  up  if  I  have  any  nonsense  with 
her,"  she  heard  Hannah  say,  as  she  shut  the  door. 

Margaret  sat  for  a  long  time  thinking.  "It 
will  be  better  to  go  and  be  done  with  it,"  she  said 
at  last.  "  Hannah  might  prevent  me  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  there  would  be  another  scene,  and  it's  enough 
to  kill  mother — I  can't  let  her  bear  it  any  longer." 

Wearily  she  reached  the  Gladstone  bag  that 
her  father  had  given  her,  down  from  the  shelf  at 
222 


MARGARET     VINCENT 

the  top  of  the  cupboard  in  the  wall.  It  was  not 
very  large,  and  luckily  it  was  light;  she  felt  that 
she  could  carry  it  quite  well  to  the  station.  She 
put  together  the  things  she  thought  she  might 
want  immediately,  the  bag  held  them  quite  easily. 
Then  she  drew  out  a  trunk  and  packed  the  rest  of 
her  clothes  into  it.  At  the  far  end  of  the  room 
there  was  a  little  old-fashioned  bureau  in  which 
she  kept  the  two  quarters'  money  that  had  come 
since  her  father  went  away.  She  took  it  out 
and  looked  at  it  wonderingly.  And  at  last  she  sat 
down  to  write  to  her  mother.  As  she  opened  her 
blotting-book  she  saw  a  sheet  of  note-paper  that 
she  had  spoiled  on  the  day  she  first  wrote  to  Miss 
Hunstan.  It  set  her  thinking  of  Tom  Carringford, 
and  that  awful  tea  at  which  Mr.  Garratt  had  trium- 
phantly put  in  his  remarks;  and  suddenly  she 
broke  down  and  cried,  for,  after  all,  she  was  only 
a  girl,  and  very  lonely.  Perhaps  the  tears  made 
her  feel  better,  for  she  took  up  her  pen,  but  a  little 
incoherent  letter  was  all  she  could  manage;  she 
gave  her  mother  Miss  Hunstan's  address,  and  said 
she  would  write  again  as  soon  as  possible  and 
every  Sunday  morning,  and  that  she  would  love 
her  every  hour,  and  be  her  own  girl  and  worthy  of 
her.  When  it  was  done  she  laid  it  on  the  little 
black  mahogany  table,  put  on  her  every-day  cape 
and  hat,  and  took  up  her  bag,  hesitated,  and  looked 
round  incredulously. 

223 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

It  was  such  a  strange  thing  to  leave  the  house 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  she  could  hardly  believe 
that  she  was  awake.  She  opened  the  door  very 
cautiously  and  listened,  but  all  was  dark  and  still, 
save  for  the  ticking  of  the  old-fashioned  clock  in 
the  passage  below.  She  went  softly  down  and 
waited  and  listened  again,  but  no  one  had  heard 
her.  Along  the  passage  to  the  back  door,  for  there 
were  not  so  many  bolts  to  it  as  to  the  front  one, 
and  it  could  be  opened  more  gently.  The  key 
was  hanging  on  a  hook,  she  took  it  down,  turned 
it  in  the  lock,  drew  back  the  one  long  bolt,  and 
stepped  out.  The  summer  air  came  soft  and  cool 
upon  her  face,  but  the  sky  was  clouded.  She  drew 
the  door  to,  locked  it  outside,  and  slipped  the  key 
under  it  back  into  the  passage,  and  stood  a  fugitive 
in  the  darkness.  She  grasped  her  bag  tightly 
and  went  softly  over  the  stones  that  were  just 
outside  the  back  door,  and  so  round  to  the  garden, 
down  the  green  pathway  and  through  the  gate; 
it  closed  with  a  click,  and  she  wondered  if  Hannah 
heard  it  in  her  sleep;  across  the  field  and  over  the 
stile — she  thought  of  Mr.  Garratt — into  the  next 
field,  and  then  suddenly  she  realized  the  folly  of 
this  headlong  departure.  She  might  at  least 
have  waited  till  the  morning,  for  there  was  no  train 
till  six  o'clock.  She  had  five  or  six  hours  in  which 
to  walk  as  many  miles.  She  sat  down  on  the  step 
of  the  stile  and  strained  her  eyes  to  see  the  trees 
224 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

that  made  her  cathedral,  but  they  were  only  a 
mass  of  blackness  in  the  night;  she  left  her  bag 
by  the  stile,  and  went  back  across  the  field  to  the 
garden  gate,  and  looked  at  the  house  once  more, 
and  at  her  mother's  darkened  window,  then  went 
back  again  to  the  stile.  Gradually  the  natural  ex- 
ultation of  youth  came  over  her. 

"I'm  going  to  London/'  she  said,  breathlessly, 
"to  seek  my  fortune  just  as  Dick  Whittington  did, 
and  as  Lena  Lakeman  said  I  ought  to  have  done." 

She  stooped  and  felt  the  grass — it  was  quite 
dry;  she  used  her  bag  as  a  pillow,  and  pulled  her 
cloak  round  her  and  stretched  herself  out  to  rest 
for  an  hour  or  two  on  the  soft  green  ground.  "Oh, 
if  mother  could  know  that  I  was  lying  here  in  the 
fields,  what  would  she  say?  But  it's  lovely  with 
the  cool  air  coming  on  my  face,  and  I  have  a  sense 
of  being  free  alreadj^. " 

But  sleep  would  not  come;  she  was  restless  and 
excited,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  shadows  of  all  the 
people  she  had  known  crowded  about  her.  She 
could  feel  her  mother's  hand  upon  her  head,  hear 
Hannah  scolding,  and  see  her  father  holding  aloof 
— till  she  could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  sat  up  and 
looked  round;  the  dawn  was  beginning;  in  the 
dim  light  she  could  see  the  green  of  the  grass. 

"  Dear  land,"  she  said,  as  she  put  her  head  down 
once  more,  "when  shall  I  walk  over  you  again 
towards  my  mother's  house?" 
«s  225 


MARGARET    YINCENT 


XXII 

MARGARET'S  heart  beat  fast  as  the  hansom 
stopped  at  the  house  in  Great  College  Street.  Mrs. 
Gilman  opened  the  door. 

"Miss  Hunstan  went  away  on  Saturday  night, 
miss/'  she  said;  "she's  gone  to  Germany  for  three 
weeks." 

"Oh  yes — to  Bayreuth;  she  said  she  might  go, 
but  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  so  soon."  Margaret 
stood  dismayed. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do,  miss?  You  are 
the  young  lady  that  came  that  morning  with  Mr. 
Carringford,  and  put  out  the  flowers?" 

"Yes  —  yes!  I  thought  Miss  Hunstan  would 
advise  me,"  Margaret  answered,  desperately.  "I 
have  come  to  London  alone  this  time,  not  with 
my  father,  and  I  want  to  live  somewhere."  For 
a  moment  Mrs.  Gilman  looked  at  her  doubt- 
fully. 

"You  are  very  young  to  be  alone,"  she  said. 

"  Oh  yes,  I'm  very  young ;  but  that  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it." 

"And  you  have  no  friends  in  London?" 

"I'm  afraid  they're  all  away,"  Margaret  an- 
226 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

swered.  "Mrs.  and  Miss  Lakeman  are  going  to 
Scotland  to-day." 

"I  know  them,"  Mrs.  Gilman  said,  her  face 
brightening,  "and  you  know  Mr.  Carringford,  too?" 

"  Oh  yes.  I  stayed  at  the  Langham  Hotel  with 
my  father/'  she  went  on,  "but  I  am  afraid  to  go 
there  now — alone." 

"I  have  a  bedroom  and  sitting-room;  perhaps 
you  would  like  them,  miss ;  they  are  the  drawing- 
rooms.  Miss  Hunstan  preferred  the  lower  floor 
because  it  was  easier  to  come  in  and  out.  I  don't 
know  if  they'd  be  too  expensive?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Margaret,  "I  have  plenty  of 
money,"  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  an  in- 
exhaustible fortune;  and  as  this  was  a  pleasant 
statement,  Mrs.  Gilman  invited  her  in  with  alacrity. 
And  so  in  an  hour  she  was  installed  in  two  wain- 
scoted rooms — as  comfortable,  if  not  as  dainty,  as 
Miss  Hunstan's  beneath,  and  Mrs.  Gilman  had 
explained  to  Margaret  that  she  had  known  Miss 
Hunstan  ever  since  she  came  to  England,  and  had 
often  gone  to  the  theatre  with  her  or  fetched  her 
back.  And  Margaret  had  told  Mrs.  Gilman  that 
she  wanted  to  be  an  actress,  too. 

"In  time,  miss,  I  suppose,"  Mrs.  Gilman  an- 
swered, with  a  motherly  smile.  Then,  when  a 
telegram  had  been  despatched  to  Chidhurst — for 
Margaret  felt  that  her  mother's  heart  had  been 
aching  all  the  morning — and  when  she  had  had 
227 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

breakfast  alone  in  her  own  little  sitting-room,  she 
felt  that  she  had  indeed  set  out  on  her  way  through 
the  world  alone.  She  determined  to  make  no  sign 
to  Mr.  Farley  till  the  Lakemans  had  started  for 
Scotland — they  were  to  start  at  ten  o'clock  that 
morning  from  Euston.  To-morrow  it  would  be 
safe,  and  she  would  write  and  ask  if  he  would  let 
her  "walk  on"  as  Miss  Hunstan  had  done  once. 

But  suppose  he  refused,  what  then?  Suddenly 
there  flashed  upon  her  the  remembrance  of  the 
dramatic  agency  in  the  Strand,  that  she  had  seen 
advertised  when  she  was  at  the  Langham.  If 
Mr.  Farley  could  do  nothing  for  her,  the  agency 
might  help  her;  it  had  said  that  engagements 
were  guaranteed.  A  spirit  of  adventure  made 
her  determine  to  try  and  find  it  that  very  after- 
noon. It  was  in  the  Strand,  where  her  father  had 
bought  her  the  Gladstone  bag,  and,  in  the  odd  way 
that  trifles  sometimes  lodge  in  one's  memory, 
the  number  of  the  house  had  remained  with  her. 
But  now  she  was  tired  out  with  the  long  excite- 
ment and  the  night  beneath  the  sky.  She  put  her 
brown  head  down  on  a  pillow,  and  in  ten  minutes 
was  fast  asleep. 

She  asked  Mrs.  Oilman  for  the  address,  and  wrote 
to  Miss  Hunstan  before  she  went  out  —  a  long 
letter,  telling  her  all  she  had  done  and  longed  to 
do,  and  asking  for  her  advice.  Then  she  went 
in  search  of  the  agency,  and  found  it  easily.  It 
228 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

was  on  a  second  floor,  up  a  dirty  staircase;  she 
stopped  to  gather  courage,  and  gave  a  feeble  knock 
at  the  door,  on  which  was  painted  in  white  letters, 
"Mr.  Baker,  Theatrical  Agent." 

"Come  in  I"  said  a  voice.  She  entered  and  found 
a  large  room  hung  indiscriminately  with  play- 
bills and  advertisements.  At  a  writing  -  table 
placed  across  the  window  sat  a  man  of  forty,  with 
a  florid  face  and  a  bald  head.  In  an  easy-chair 
by  the  fireplace  was  a  woman,  expensively  arid 
rather  showily  dressed.  Her  large,  gray  eyes  were 
bright  but  expressionless.  She  had  a  quantity  of 
fair  hair  done  up  elaborately;  the  color  on  her 
cheeks  did  not  var}^ ;  she  might  have  been  any  age 
between  twenty-eight  and  forty.  Leaning  against 
the  fireplace  was  a  young  man,  clean  shaven  and 
well-dressed.  Margaret  heard  him  say: 

"  Certainly  not,  I  won't  pay  a  penny ;  if  a  manager 
has  no  faith  in  it  he  can  leave  it  alone." 

"You'll  never  get  any  one  to  risk  it,"  the  woman 
said,  with  a  laugh.  "  Regeneration  never  pays — " 
she  stopped  as  Margaret  entered,  and  did  not  try 
to  disguise  the  admiration  into  which  she  was 
surprised. 

But  Margaret  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  speak  before  her.  "Perhaps  I'd  better  come 
another  time?"  she  began.  The  young  man  by 
the  fireplace  looked  at  her  intently,  but  he  took 
the  hint. 

229 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Good-morning,  Baker,  I'll  come  round  later," 
he  said,  and,  with  another  look  at  Margaret,  de- 
parted. 

The  man  at  the  desk  turned  to  her,  "Now, 
madam,  what  can  we  do  for  you?  You  can  speak 
before  Miss  Ramsey — in  fact,  if  you've  come  about 
an  engagement,  she  might  be  able  to  give  you 
some  advice."  Margaret  glanced  quickly  at  the 
woman  and  then  round  the  ugly  office,  and  as  she 
did  so  a  little  of  the  glamour  of  the  stage  seemed 
to  vanish.  Only  for  a  moment;  then  her  courage 
came  back,  and  hope,  which  is  never  fickle  long 
to  youth,  stood  by  her.  This  office  was  not  the 
stage,  not  even  its  threshold,  she  thought;  it  was 
only  the  little  narrow  street,  dreary  and  ill-kept, 
that  branched  off  from  the  main  thoroughfare. 

"You  look  as  if  you'd  come  from  the  country/' 
Miss  Ramsey  said.  Her  voice  showed  a  desire  to 
be  friendly. 

"Yes,  I've  come  from  the  country,"  Margaret 
answered.  She  turned  to  Mr.  Baker  again,  "I 
want  to  go  on  the  stage,"  she  said,  "and  under- 
stood that  you  could  give  help  and  advice." 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  in  a  business-like  tone, 
and  opened  a  book  beside  him.  "  We  charge  one 
guinea  for  entering  your  name." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  a  smile  came  to  her  lips. 
"I  want  to  know  first  what  you  can  do  for  me," 
she  answered,  and  Mr.  Baker  came  to  the  con- 
230 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

elusion  that  she  was  not  such  a  fool  as  he  had 
imagined. 

"  We  can  do  everything  for  you,  my  dear  young 
lady,  but  you  must  give  us  a  reason  for  taking 
an  interest  in  you.  We  don't  give  advice  gratis — " 
the  door  opened  and  a  man  entered. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  he  asked,  referring  to  a  note- 
book, "  where  '  The  Ticket  of  Leave  Man '  was 
played  last,  and  whether  Miss  Josephine  de  Grey, 
who  came  out  in  the  provinces  last  year,  has  had 
any  engagements  lately?" 

Mr.  Baker  consulted  two  books  from  a  shelf 
behind  him  and  answered  off-hand,  "'Ticket  of 
Leave  Man/  Prince  of  Wales 's  Theatre,  Harrogate, 
22d  last  February,  for  a  week.  Miss  Josephine 
de  Grey  played  five  nights  at  the  Royalty  this 
March ;  engagement  came  to  an  end  in  consequence 
of  the  non-success  of  the  management." 

"Thank  you/'  the  man  said,  put  down  a  fee, 
and  departed.  The  incident  had  its  effect  on 
Margaret. 

"I  will  pay  the  guinea,"  she  said.  "Would 
you  tell  me  how  I  am  to  begin?" 

He  took  up  the  book  once  more — "Margaret 
Vincent — really  your  own  name,  is  it? — tall,  grace- 
ful, good-looking.  Shall  we  say  nineteen?  Would 
you  like  to  play  boys'  parts?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Burlesque  or  singing  parts?" 
231 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"  No,  I  want  to  act,  or  learn  to  act,  in  real  plays. 
Some  day  I  want  to  play  in  Shakespeare's;"  she 
felt  that  it  was  sacrilege  to  mention  his  name  in 
these  surroundings.  "Of  course  I  know  I  must 
play  very  small  parts  at  first." 

"Any  one  to  back  you  with  money?" 

"No." 

"Any  friends  among  the  aristocracy  or  the  press?" 

"No." 

"She'll  soon  have  them,"  said  Miss  Ramsey, 
with  a  laugh,  which  Mr.  Baker  echoed  in  a  manner 
that  Margaret  found  particularly  offensive. 

"I  quite  agree,"  he  said.  "And  you  don't 
know  any  one  in  the  profession?"  he  asked  her. 

"  I  know  Mr.  Dawson  Farley,  and  Miss  Hunstan 
a  little." 

His  manner  changed  altogether.  "  My  dear 
young  lady,  what  could  be  better  ?  They  are  at 
the  top  of  the  profession."  He  closed  the  book 
as  if  he  wanted  time  for  reflection.  "Our  fee  for 
appearance  without  salary  is  two  guineas;  with 
salary,  ten  per  cent.  I  think  you  said  Great  College 
Street,  Westminster — secluded  and  near  the  Abbey 
— very  nice  indeed,"  writing  down  the  address. 
"  You  might  call  again,  Miss  Vincent,  or  you  shall 
hear  from  us,"  and  he  closed  the  book. 

Margaret  turned  quickly  to  the  door,  giving 
Miss  Ramsey  and  Mr.  Baker  a  little  haughty 
nod  between  them. 

232 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"I  don't  think  much  of  the  young  lady's  man- 
ner/' Mr.  Baker  said,  after  she  had  gone,  "but  her 
face  ought  to  be  a  fortune.  I  wonder  if  she  really 
knows  Farley?" 

Miss  Ramsey  got  up  and  looked  at  herself  in 
the  fly-blown  glass  and  at  the  dirty  cards  stuck 
in  its  frame.  "Wish  I  were  as  young  as  that 
girl;  I'm  tired  of  playing  in  rubbish/'  she  said. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  Farley  to  give  you  some- 
thing?" 

"  No  good.     I  can't  stand  his  patronizing  ways." 

"Make  Murray  write  you  a  part." 

"  Bosh !  He  read  me  an  act  of  one  of  his  plays, 
long-winded  talk  and  nothing  to  do,  too  much 
poetry,  and  not  enough — not  enough  bigness  for 
me.  I  want  something  to  move  about  with  in  a 
play.  Besides,  he  won't  risk  any  money  even  on 
his  own  stuff;  too  platonic  for  that — platonics 
are  always  economical.  Ta-ta." 

"Have  a  whiskey  and  soda?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  and  she,  too,  disappeared 
down  the  dirty  staircase  that  Margaret  had  taken 
a  few  minutes  before. 


MARGARET    YINCENT 


XXIII 

IT  was  five  o'clock  when  Margaret  knocked  at  the 
street  door  in  Great  College  Street  again. 

"There's  a  lady  waiting  for  you,"  Mrs.  Oilman 
said,  as  she  let  her  in. 

"A  lady!"  Margaret  exclaimed,  and  hurried  up- 
stairs. In  the  drawing-room  sat  Hannah.  She 
wore  her  blue  alpaca  frock  and  black  straw  hat 
with  the  upstanding  bow  on  one  side;  she  had 
thrown  aside  her  cape,  and  the  moment  she  saw 
Margaret  she  took  off  her  hat  as  if  to  prepare  her- 
self for  the  fray. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "this  is  a  pretty  thing  to  do, 
isn't  it?  You'll  just  come  home  with  me  this 
very  moment." 

Margaret  stood  with  her  back  to  the  door.  "  It's 
very  kind  of  you  to  come  up,  Hannah,  but  I'm 
going  to  stay  here,"  she  answered. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

The  determination  in  Hannah's  voice  put  the 
bit  between  Margaret's  teeth.  "I  am  going  to 
stay  here,"  she  repeated. 

"Either  you  come  home  this  minute,"  replied 
Hannah,  who  had  made  up  her  mind  that  a  firm 
234 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

policy  was  the  right  one  to  use  with  Margaret, 
"or  you  don't  come  at  all." 

"Then  I  don't  come  at  all— till  my  father  re- 
turns." 

"And  that  won't  be  for  another  year,  if  then. 
There  was  a  letter  this  morning  which  showed  it 
plain  enough." 

"Then  I'll  come  back  when  you  are  married, 
to  take  care  of  our  mother." 

Hannah  turned  pale  with  rage.  "Now  look 
here,  Margaret,"  she  said,  "and  understand  that 
I  don't  want  any  taunts  from  you.  You've  taken 
good  care  to  put  an  end  to  all  that  forever.  It's 
my  belief  that  you  think  Mr.  Garratt  is  going  to 
follow  you  up  to  London."  At  which  Margaret 
raised  her  head  quickly,  but  she  only  half  con- 
vinced Hannah. 

"I  don't  want  Mr.  Garratt,"  she  said,  "and  I 
won't  let  him  know  where  I  am,  I  promise  you  that, 
and  if  he  finds  out  he  shall  not  enter  the  house. 
He  lost  his  temper  yesterday,  but  he  didn't  mean 
any  of  the  things  he  said,  and  now  that  I'm  away 
he'll  come  back  to  you." 

'Til  take  good  care  he  never  enters  the  place," 
said  Hannah.  "  Perhaps  you  don't  know  that  he's 
written  you  a  letter?  I  could  tell  his  handwriting 
on  the  envelope,  though  he  has  tried  to  alter  it." 

"You  can  open  it  and  read  it,  or  give  it  back  to 
him,  or  put  it  in  the  fire,"  Margaret  answered. 
235 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"It's  such  a  long  way  for  you  to  have  come;  won't 
you  have  some  tea,  Hannah?" 

"I  don't  want  any  tea.  If  that's  where  you 
sleep/'  she  added,  nodding  towards  the  other  room, 
"  you  had  better  go  and  pack  up  your  things  at 
once.  We  shall  have  time  to  catch  the  6.50;  I  don't 
mind  taking  a  cab  to  the  station." 

"It's  no  use;  I'm  not  coming,"  Margaret,  an- 
swered, firmly. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  you  are  going  to  do  in 
London?"  asked  Hannah,  beginning  to  lose  her 
temper  again.  "  And  what  sort  of  a  house  is  this 
you're  in,  I  should  like  to  know,  with  an  actress 
lodging  down-stairs  ?  I ' ve  found  that  out  already. ' ' 

"I  hope  I  shall  be  an  actress,  too,  soon." 

"You!"  Hannah  almost  screamed.  "You  that 
have  no  religion  now  want  to  be  an  actress ;  where 
do  you  think  it  will  all  end?" 

"I  am  not  going  to  discuss  it  with  you,"  Mar- 
garet answered,  loftily,  "it  was  very  kind  of  you 
to  come,  but  if  you  won't  have  any  tea  you  had 
better  go  home  again.  I  have  written  to  father, 
and  I  know  that  my  mother  will  trust  me.  I  have 
not  got  any  of  the  religion  that  makes  you  narrow 
and  hard ;  you  have  made  me  afraid  of  even  think- 
ing about  that;  and  I'm  going  to  be  an  actress. 
But  I  won't  do  anything  wrong — " 

"We  are  all  weak — "  Hannah  began,  in  con- 
sternation. 

236 


' MARGARET    VINCENT 

"I  will  be  as  strong  as  I  can,"  Margaret  cried, 
passionately.  "Go  back,  Hannah,  and  think 
things  over.  If  there  can  be  peace  at  home,  and 
Mr.  Garratt  is  not  a  bone  of  contention  between 
us — I  don't  want  him,  you  understand — presently 
I  will  come  home  again." 

"You  return  with  me  to-night,"  Hannah  in- 
sisted, "or  you  shall  not  enter  the  house  again." 

"I  shall  not  return  with  you  to-night,"  Margaret 
answered,  doggedly. 

"It's  what  I  always  knew  would  come  of  it. 
Understand  now,  Margaret,  once  for  all,  that  un- 
less you  go  back  with  me  I'll  have  the  door  closed 
against  you.  I'd  turn  the  key  and  close  the  bolts 
myself,  though  it  were  the  coldest  night  in  winter." 

"  But  remember  I  have  a  right  to  come,"  Margaret 
said,  blazing  a  little.  "You  have  no  right  to  lock 
me  out  of  my  mother's  house." 

"  Right  or  not  right,  you  shall  not  enter  till  I'm 
forced  to  let  you  in.  I've  had  unbelievers  long 
enough  about  the  place,  but  when  it  comes  to 
actresses,  too,  it's  time  I  made  a  stand,  and  I'll 
make  it.  Now,  then,  are  you  coming?"  she  asked, 
in  a  threatening  voice. 

"No,  I'm  not." 

"  Very  well,  then,  the  rest  is  on  your  own  head." 
Hannah   opened   the   door   and   hesitated.     "I'm 
sure  I've  had  enough  of  you,"  she  said,  as  she 
went  down  the  stairs.     Margaret  flew  after  her. 
237 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

"Oh,  tell  my  mother  that  I  love  her,"  she  cried, 
entreatingly. 

"Pretty  love!"  said  Hannah,  scornfully,  as  she 
stalked  along  the  little  hall  and  out  into  the  street. 

"  Hannah — " 

"Pretty  love!"  repeated  Hannah  from  the  pave- 
ment, "I've  no  patience  with  it,"  and,  with  her 
head  in  the  air,  she  marched  up  the  street. 

Margaret  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  and 
threw  herself  down  on  her  knees  beside  the  sofa. 
' '  Oh,  what  can  I  do  V  she  cried.  "  If  I  had  only  some 
one  to  help  me!  This  is  what  it  means  —  this  is 
why  they  want  it  so,"  she  went  on  incoherently  to 
herself.  "Human  beings  are  not  strong  enough 
to  manage  their  lives  alone — it  is  why  all  the  mis- 
takes are  made.  I  must  write  to  her  at  once.  Oh, 
my  dear,  dear  mother."  She  went  to  the  writing- 
table  on  one  side  of  the  room.  There  was  a  worn- 
out  old  blotting-book,  and  in  it  a  sheet  of  crumpled 
note-paper.  She  smoothed  it,  and  with  a  wretched, 
spiky  pen  poured  out  her  heart  in  a  letter,  and  felt 
better  for  it.  Her  mother  would  understand,  her 
mother  always  did,  and  would  trust  her  and  wait. 
How  she  wished  that  she  had  never  left  the  farm, 
that  she  had  borne  Hannah's  scoldings,  borne 
anything  rather  than  deserted  the  dear  home  of 
all  her  life.  She  only  realized,  too,  now  that  she 
was  away  from  her,  that  her  mother  was  growing 
old — how  foolish  it  seemed  to  miss  any  time  at 
238 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

all  with  her.  But  Hannah  was  not  to  be  borne. 
Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  since  her  father 
went  she  had  tormented  Margaret,  and  save  by 
fits  and  starts  her  mother  had  been  too  well  lost  in 
her  own  dreams  even  to  notice  it,  except,  of  course, 
when  there  had  been  scenes,  and  these  were  almost 
as  trying  to  Mrs.  Vincent  as  to  Margaret.  After 
all,  she  had  done  a  wise  thing,  especially  since 
Mr.  Garratt  had  written,  and  her  father  was  not 
coming  home  just  yet.  "It's  only  the  beginning 
that  is  so  difficult,"  she  said  to  herself,  "presently 
it  will  be  better."  She  looked  at  the  clock  on  the 
mantel  -  piece.  The  Lakemans  must  be  safe  in 
Scotland  by  this  time;  Hannah  was  on  her  way 
back  to  Chidhurst.  She  wondered  whether  Tom 
Carringford  was  in  London,  and  if  he  had  thought 
of  her  at  all  yesterday  when  he  went  to  the  house 
on  the  hill  to  dine — if  he  had  looked  across  even 
once  at  Woodside  Farm. 


MARGARET    YINCENT 


XXIV 

IT  was  the  strangest  thing  to  wake  in  the  morn- 
ing and  to  realize  that  she  was  alone,  living  on  her 
own  responsibility,  in  London ;  the  strangest  thing 
to  walk  into  her  sitting-room  and  see  breakfast  laid 
for  her. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  live  by  myself/'  she  cried ;  "  it's 
such  a  mad  thing  to  do."  But  hundreds  did  it, 
why  not  she?  Courage!  She  had  started  on  her 
way  through  the  world,  and  it  would  be  better  to 
begin  at  once  arranging  the  work  she  meant  to  do. 
She  knew  the  name  of  Mr.  Farley's  theatre;  she 
wondered  if  it  would  be  better  to  go  and  see  him 
rather  than  to  write.  It  was  so  difficult  to  explain 
things  in  a  letter,  and  she  had  learned  already  that 
to  get  to  any  place  she  didn't  know  in  London  it 
was  only  necessary  to  take  a  cab  and  to  pay  the 
man  at  the  end  of  the  journey. 

She  was  too  impatient  to  wait  long,  and  it  was 
only  eleven  o'clock  when  she  inquired  for  Mr.  Far- 
ley at  the  box-office  of  the  theatre,  and  was  directed 
to  go  to  the  stage  door.  The  stage  door  was  down 
a  court,  ugly  and  narrow ;  the  door-keeper,  in  a  lit- 
tle office  on  the  right,  inquired  her  business.  Her 
240 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

name  was  written  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  sent  up 
to  Mr.  Farley,  and  after  she  had  waited  some  min- 
utes in  an  ill-kept  passage  a  boy  came  and  asked 
her  to  follow  him — across  the  stage,  that  looked 
like  a  staring  desert,  and  past  the  scenery  leaning 
against  the  walls,  lath  and  canvas  and  card-board 
and  crude  colors  that  brought  home  to  her  uncom- 
fortably the  realities  of  the  life  she  was  seeking; 
up  a  little  staircase  and  into  a  comfortable,  well- 
furnished  room,  hung  with  signed  portraits  of  ce- 
lebrities. Mr.  Farley  came  forward  to  meet  her; 
he  shook  hands  and  looked  at  her  approving- 
ly, for  he  had  already  divined  the  object  of  her 
visit. 

"And  what  did  Miss — Miss  Hannah  was  it — 
say  to  this  scheme?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile,  when 
she  had  stated  her  ambitions. 

"She  doesn't  approve  of  it;  but  my  mother  will 
trust  me." 

"And  does  any  one  know  that  you  are  in  Lon- 
don?" he  asked,  his  thoughts  running  to  Tom 
Carringford. 

"  No  one;  I  wrote  to  Miss  Hunstan,  but  she  is  at 
Bayreuth.  I  don't  want  any  one  else  to  know, 
Mr.  Farley — my  life  is  my  own  to  live,"  she  added, 
quickly,  "and  I  want  to  begin  at  once.  Can  you 
let  me '  walk  on'  as  Miss  Hunstan  did  once?" 

The  girl  had  some  stuff  in  her,  he  thought.    "  Cer- 
tainly you  shall  walk  on  if  you  like.  Miss  Vincent  ; 
"*  241 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

we  can  easily  make  room  for  one  or  two  more/'  he 
answered.  "  But,  understand,  it  means  hard  work ; 
you  will  have  to  come  to  rehearsal  and  perhaps  to 
wait  about  for  hours,  and  when  we  begin  to  play  you 
will  have  to  come  down  every  night,  of  course,  and 
nothing  must  make  you  late  or  careless — ill  or  well 
you  must  be  here.  No  excuses  allowed ;  your  work 
must  come  before  everything  else,  and  to  begin  with 
you  will  get  a  guinea  a  week.  Young  ladies  are 
apt  to  think  they  have  only  to  run  on  the  stage  to 
become  actresses,  but  you  will  find  that  nothing 
is  done  without  hard  work  and  patient  waiting, 
unless  you  are  a  genius ;  if  you  are,  we  shall  dis- 
cover it.  We  begin  rehearsing  at  11.30  to-day; 
you  can  wait,  if  you  like."  And  so  he  dismissed 
her,  realizing  that  he  was  a  different  person  alto- 
gether in  the  theatre  from  the  Dawson  Farley  of 
Mrs.  Lakeman's  drawing-room  or  the  garden  at 
Woodside  Farm.  Nevertheless,  he  had  been  inter- 
ested by  her  visit.  It  was  very  odd,  he  thought, 
this  girl  coming  from  the  atmosphere  in  which  he 
had  seen  her  last  week  to  lonely  lodgings  in  West- 
minster. Very  odd  altogether.  Lucky  for  her 
that  she  had  got  into  Mrs.  Oilman's,  a  respectable 
house,  and  a  nice  woman.  He  had  half  a  mind 
to  telegraph  the  whole  thing  to  Mrs.  Lakeman, 
and  suggest  that  she  should  invite  Margaret  to 
Scotland ;  it  would  be  far  better  for  her  than  stay- 
ing in  London;  but,  after  all,  it  was  no  affair  of 
242 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

his,  and  he  disliked  mixing  up  business  and  pri- 
vate matters.  Still,  when  he  wrote  to  Pitlochry, 
he  made  up  his  mind  he  would  tell  Mrs.  Lakeman 
about  Margaret;  she  was  a  clever,  practical  wom- 
an, and  would  know  if  anything  ought  to  be  done 
for  the  girl. 

Meanwhile,  Margaret  had  been  given  over  to  the 
stage  manager,  and  waited  eagerly  for  the  rehears- 
al to  begin.  It  was  uglier  than  she  had  expected. 
The  gaping,  empty  theatre,  covered  with  holland 
sheets;  the  dusty  stage,  with  its  whitewashed 
walls,  and  lumbering  scenery  packed  together, 
standing  up  against  them;  the  every-day  clothes 
of  the  actors  and  actresses,  made  it  all  so  vastly 
different  a  matter  from  seeing  a  play  at  night  from 
the  stalls  with  her  father ;  but  it  was  absurd  of  her, 
she  thought,  not  to  have  remembered  that  it  would 
be  so;  "it  is  like  being  at  the  back  of  the  world," 
she  thought.  The  company  was  a  good-sized  one, 
and  Margaret,  shy  and  awkward,  stood  apart, 
looking  at  it.  Some  of  its  members  were  ladies 
and  gentlemen;  they  glanced  at  her,  curiously 
wondering  who  she  was,  but  only  for  a  moment; 
they  were  intent  on  their  own  life  battle.  Some 
were  not  ladies  and  gentlemen,  but  tawdry  make- 
believes,  or  shabby  and  anxious-looking.  One  or 
two  of  them  looked  as  if  they  would  have  spoken 
to  her,  but  she  gave  them  no  chance.  When  Daw- 
son  Farley  came  on  he  was  busy  and  full  of  the 
243 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

responsibility  of  a  great  speculation;  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  her.  Even  in  that  first  day  she 
realized  that  she  was  a  little  unit  of  no  account  in 
an  important  whole.  True,  when  she  had  to  go 
across  the  stage  at  the  end  of  the  first  act,  he  turned 
his  head  for  a  moment.  She  walked  well,  he 
thought;  if  he  heard  that  she  was  intelligent,  he 
might  some  day  give  her  a  small  part.  She  was 
beautiful;  he  realized  that.  Ten  years  ago  the 
story  of  Louise  Hunstan  might  have  been  repeated 
(on  his  part),  but  now  he  was  wiser.  Then  it  struck 
him,  as  he  waited  in  the  wings,  that  her  mother 
had  looked  ill  the  other  day,  like  a  woman  who 
was  not  going  to  live  long,  and  that  if  she  died 
Mrs.  Lakeman  might  want  to  marry  her  old  lover, 
Gerald  Vincent.  Perhaps  it  would  be  wise  if  he 
tried  to  hurry  things  up  a  little. 

Margaret  had  discovered  that  it  was  only  a  lit- 
tle way  from  the  theatre  to  Great  College  Street, 
and  she  walked  back  from  the  rehearsal.  After 
the  stuffiness  and  dimness  of  the  theatre  she  was 
glad  to  be  in  the  open  air  again,  and  all  manner  of 
new  experiences  suggested  themselves.  She  looked 
at  the  people  she  passed  in  the  narrow  streets  near 
the  stage  door;  they  seemed  to  have  suffered  so 
much,  to  have  hoped  for  so  much,  and  each  one  to 
have  a  strange  little  history  of  some  sort.  A  first 
glimmering  of  the  temptations  of  life  dawned  upon 
her,  the  expression  of  a  woman's  face,  or  a  man's 
244 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

casual  speech,  brought  home  to  her  a  sense  of 
some  things  at  which  Hannah  had  railed.  Han- 
nah had  only  known  of  them  by  instinct,  or  she 
had  railed  at  them  parrot-like,  because  she  had 
heard  others  do  so;  but  under  it  all  lay  a  founda- 
tion, though  she  had  never  dug  to  it.  Gradually 
Margaret  realized  that  of  all  people  and  of  all 
things  there  was  a  justification,  from  a  given  point 
of  view,  and  that,  even  if  it  had  made  no  difference 
to  a  condemnation,  it  should  never  be  forgotten. 

The  morning,  the  third  day  of  Margaret's  stay 
in  London,  brought  her  a  letter  from  her  mother — 
a  simple,  trusting  letter  with  not  a  shadow  of  re- 
proach in  it.  "I  wish  you  hadn't  left  us  so,  Mar- 
gey,  dear/'  she  said,  "for  it  has  made  Hannah 
very  angry,  and  I  don't  think  it  would  be  any 
good  your  coming  back  just  yet,  but  if  you  want 
anything  write  to  me.  It  is  a  good  thing  that  you 
are  living  in  a  house  with  such  a  nice  woman. 
Perhaps  you  could  write  to  Sir  George  Stringer, 
for  he  knew  your  father  when  he  was  young,  and 
would  help  you  to  do  what  was  best.  Hannah  is 
packing  your  trunk  to  send  up,  but  I  am  afraid 
to  say  anything  to  her.  When  she  goes  to  Peters- 
field  at  the  end  of  the  week  I'll  send  you  some  eggs 
and  butter  and  flowers,  but  I  don't  like  to  say  any- 
thing about  it  now,  for  it's  no  good  making  her 
cross.  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Garratt,  and  told  him  you 
had  gone  to  London,  and  I  sent  him  back  the  letter, 
245 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

as  you  asked  me.  I'm  not  very  well,  but  you 
must  not  be  anxious.  I  think  it's  the  trial  of  Han- 
nah's temper  when  you  were  here.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  it's  as  well  that  you  are  away  for  a  bit  She 
may  have  got  over  it  a  little  in  a  month  or  two.  I 
think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  she  is  very  angry 
indeed  about  your  being  an  actress.  She  says 
old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton,  of  Petersfield,  will  say  I 
am  doing  very  wrong  in  giving  my  consent,  but 
I  have  never  believed  in  the  world  being  as  bad 
as  they  do,  or  could  see  why  the  theatre  should 
be  wicked.  Your  father  said  once  that  everything 
was  just  what  we  made  it,  and  it  could  always  be 
made  good  or  bad,  and  I  want  you  to  remember 
that  about  your  life.  It  is  what  I  have  always 
felt  about  your  father,  and  that  God,  who  knows 
him,  will  be  satisfied,  no  matter  what  people  say." 
Margaret  kissed  it,  and  gave  a  long  sigh  of 
thankfulness.  "She  isn't  angry,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "and  she  understands.  My  mother  al- 
ways did,  bless  her."  She  rose  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  little  drawing-room.  She  had  not 
known  till  now  how  much  she  had  longed  for  a 
letter,  for  some  sign  that  she  had  not  done  a  wicked 
or  foolish  thing  when  she  fled  from  home.  "Now 
I  feel  as  if  I  can  go  on,"  she  said,  "  and  who  knows 
but  that  some  day  I  shall  be  a  great  actress  as 
Miss  Hunstan  is — she  has  my  letter  this  morning, 
I  wonder  what  she'll  say  when  she  writes  to  me." 
246 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

The  little  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  struck  ten.  As 
if  in  answer  to  it  there  came  a  double  knock  to  the 
street  door,  the  sound  of  a  voice  and  some  hurried 
steps,  and  the  next  moment  Tom  Carringford 
walked  in.  Margaret  'Started  to  her  feet  with  a 
cry  of  surprise : 

" Oh,"  she  said,  "  how  did  you  know  I  was  here?" 

"Miss  Hunstan  wired — had  it  ten  minutes  ago 
— so  got  into  a  hansom  and  came  at  once.  And 
now  what  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  just  as  if  he 
had  a  right  to  do  so.  He  sat  down  in  the  easy- 
chair  facing  her,  his  face  beaming  with  happi- 
ness, even  though  Mr.  Garratt  rankled  in  his  mem- 
ory. "Why  are  you  in  London?  You  said  some- 
thing about  coming,  in  the  wood  that  day,  but  I 
didn't  think  you  meant  it." 

"I  am  here  just  as  Miss  Hunstan  is.  I  have 
taken  these  rooms,  and  want  to  be  an  actress  as 
she  was." 

"What  for?" — his  eyes  were  full  of  astonish- 
ment— "and  what  does  your  mother  say  to  it?" 

"She  understands.  She  knows  that  I  can't  go 
back  till  my  father  returns. " 

"And  what  about  Mr.  Garratt?"  his  tone  was 
brisk  and  gay,  but  he  waited  eagerly  for  her  answer. 

"Oh!"  and  she  grew  crimson,  "I  did  so  want 
to  tell  you  about  Mr.  Garratt,  but  I  didn't  feel  I 
could  unless  you  asked  me.  He  came  to  see  Han- 
nah— 'L 

247 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"I  don't  believe  that/'  he  laughed.  "I  saw 
Hannah,  you  know." 

"And  then  he  thought — that — he  liked  me — 
and  he  said — well,  he  said  things — you  know," 
she  added,  rather  lamely. 

Tom  nodded  to  give  her  courage.     "Well?" 

"  And  he  went  up  to  the  wood  when  I  was  there, 
and  Lena  Lakeman  came  up  and  found  him,  and 
— and,  oh,  I  hated  Mr.  Garratt,"  and  she  burst 
into  tears.  "  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I  detested 
him,  and  yet  you  know  he  was  very  straightfor- 
ward in  a  way,  and  he  was  not  afraid  of  saying 
what  he  thought,  and,  of  course,  he  couldn't  help 
being  vulgar — " 

"And  what  about  Hannah?" 

"It  was  impossible  to  stay  there  with  Hannah 
— and  Mr.  Garratt  —  and  —  all  the  scenes."  She 
was  confused  and  incoherent,  but  Tom  made  out 
the  story  in  his  own  mind. 

"And  then?"  he  said. 

"  And  then  I  slipped  out  in  the  darkness  on  Sun- 
day night  and  came  up  here.  I  thought,  perhaps, 
Miss  Hunstan  would  help  me." 

His  face  beamed  with  happiness.  "Of  course, 
I  knew  there  couldn't  really  be  anything  between 
you  and  Mr.  Garratt;  only  it  looked  very  odd,  didn't 
it?  And  then  Lena  told  me  about  Sunday — about 
his  being  up  there,  you  know,  and  how  she  found 
you — " 

248 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

"Oh,  don't/'  Margaret  cried,  passionately.  "It 
was  mean  of  her  to  tell  you,  for  she  heard  every- 
thing I  said  to  him — " 

"Well,  never  mind,"  he  answered,  in  a  consol- 
ing voice,  "  we've  done  with  him,  haven't  we?  But 
you  know,  Margaret,"  he  added,  falling  into  the 
familiar  address  without  being  aware  of  it,  "you 
can't  go  on  staying  in  rooms  in  London  by  your- 
self; and  as  for  going  on  the  stage,  why  it's  all 
nonsense.  I  am  very  impertinent  to  say  it,  of 
course;  but  you  see  our  fathers  knew  each  other 
all  their  lives,  so  you  must  look  upon  me  as  an  old 
friend.  It's  a  great  bore  the  Lakemans  being  in 
Scotland ;  you  might  have  stayed  with  them — " 

"No,  I  couldn't." 

"Why  not?  Mrs.  Lakeman  is  a  good  sort. 
Lena  is  a  bit  of  a  bore,  of  course"  —  a  remark 
which,  for  some  unknown  reason,  brought  exulta- 
tion to  Margaret's  heart.  "As  for  being  an  ac- 
tress, why  you  know  it's  all  nonsense — don't  look 
so  offended."  His  voice  would  have  been  tender 
if  he  had  not  checked  it.  "People  often  come  to 
grief  in  London — things  are  too  much  for  them." 

"I  am  not  offended,"  she  answered;  "but  if 
things  are  too  much  for  me  I  suppose  I  must  bear 
it  as  others  have  done;  after  all,  the  soldier  who 
falls  on  the  battle-field  is  more  to  be  envied  than 
if  he  dies  in  his  native  village." 

"I  should  think  you  have  done  a  good  deal  of 
249 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

reading;  that  sounds  like  it,  you  know/'  at  which 
they  laughed,  like  the  boy  and  girl  they  were.  "  I 
wish  you'd  go  back/'  he  half  entreated. 

"But  I  won't/'  she  said,  obstinately. 

"Then  let  me  wire  to  the  Lakemans  and  ask 
if  they  can  have  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  for  the  world." 

"You  are  very  positive.  And  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  are  bent  on  this  stage  business?" 

"Yes;  I'm  bent  on  it,"  and  she  told  him  of  her 
visit  to  Mr.  Farley  in  the  morning  and  of  the  two 
rehearsals.  He  got  up  and  walked  about.  He 
was  worried,  of  course — he  felt  that  he  ought  to  be 
worried — but  he  was  so  happy  at  hearing  that  there 
was  nothing  between  her  and  Mr.  Garratt  that  he 
found  it  difficult  to  be  serious.  "I  wish  I  could 
make  you  see,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  only  taking 
the  bread  out  of  other  people's  mouths.  When  I 
get  into  the  House  I  shall  make  bread-snatching 
a  penal  offence,  and  send  you  to  prison. " 

"Bread-snatching!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Why,  you  see  lots  of  women  have  to  work  for 
food  and  clothes  and  a  roof.  Some  try  to  act, 
some  to  dressmake,  or  write  novels,  or  teach  in- 
fants—that's all  right,  of  course.  They've  got 
to  do  it  to  get  through  the  world.  If  you  have 
got  a  great  deal  of  talent  for  acting,  even  though 
you  are  not  obliged  to  do  it,  it  is  all  right  to  go  on 
the  stage,  and,  of  course,  if  you  have  genius  you 
250 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

have  no  business  to  keep  it  from  the  world.  But 
there  are  a  whole  heap  of  women  who  want  to  do 
things  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  little  more  money 
than  they  really  need,  or  because  they  like  being 
talked  about,  or  for  some  other  reason  that  doesn't 
hold  water,  and  they  do  it  under  easy  conditions 
and  snatch  the  chances  from  the  women  who  have 
got  to  do  it  for  their  bread-and-butter.  I  think 
they  are  an  immoral  lot  myself." 

"But,  Mr.  Carringford— " 

"  You  don't  want  money,  do  you?" 

"I've  got  a  hundred  pounds  in  my  pocket — " 

"Splendid!  I've  only  got  two  pounds  ten  in 
mine.  But  what  have  you  got  a  year?" 

"  Father  has  only  two  hundred.  I  have  it  while 
he  is  away." 

"But  when  your  father  returns  he'll  be  rich. 
His  brother  has  made  a  pile  out  there — heard  so 
the  other  day — and  he  hasn't  any  children.  Do 
go  back  to  the  farm,  there's  a  dear  girl." 

"But  I  can't,"  said  Margaret,  carefully  conceal- 
ing the  pleasure  she  felt  at  being  called  a  dear 
girl.  "Hannah  wouldn't  even  let  me  in  now. 
Besides,  I  may  be  very  stupid  or  I  may  be  a  genius  ; 
I  want  to  find  out,  and  I  shall  be  quite  safe  here." 

"Oh  yes,  you'll  be  quite  safe  here.  Mrs.  Oil- 
man is  a  nice  woman.  She's  a  great  friend  of 
mine.  I  shall  go  and  talk  to  her  in  a  moment. 
My  people  used  to  know  her — believe  it  was  my 
251 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

mother  who  sent  Miss  Hunstan  here.  Well,  if 
you  are  not  going  back  to  the  farm,  when  you've 
done  your  rehearsal  to-day  we  might  have  a  spree 
— drive  about,  or  something.  Mr.  Vincent  let  us 
do  it  before,  so  he  wouldn't  mind  our  doing  it 
again." 

"Of  course  not,"  she  answered,  joyfully. 

"Shall  I  call  for  you  at  the  theatre?" 

"I  don't  know  what  time  the  rehearsal  will  be 
over." 

"Then  suppose  I  come  here  at  four  and  we  drive 
to  Richmond,  walk  about  in  the  park,  dine  early, 
and  get  back  here  by  nine?  That  '11  be  all  right, 
you  know,  or  we'll  take  a  steamer  on  the  river 
Thames,  as  the  guide-books  say,  and  go  to  Green- 
wich. Meanwhile,  does  Sir  George  Stringer  know 
that  you  are  here?" 

"No;  but  I  am  going  to  write  to  him,  only  I 
didn't  think  of  it  till  mother  wrote." 

"  I  shall  tell  the  Lakemans  you  are  here,  of 
course." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  very  doubtfully. 

"I  don't  believe  you  care  about  them?" 

"I've  only  seen  Mrs.  Lakeman  twice."  She 
stopped  a  moment.  "Mr.  Carringford — "  she 
began. 

"Why  do  you  call  me  that?  It  sounds  so  ab- 
surd." 

"Does  it/'  she  said,  and  the  color  came  to  her 
252 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

face.  "I  was  going  to  ask — are  you  engaged  to 
Lena  Lakeman?"  She  almost  laughed,  for  now, 
somehow,  the  question  seemed  absurd. 

"No.     Are  you  engaged  to  Mr.  Garratt?" 

"Why,  of  course  not!" 

"That's  all  right,  then.  Didn't  you  say  your 
rehearsal  was  at  11.30?  I  might  drive  you  down. 
Only  twenty  minutes — you  must  be  punctual, 
you  know,  if  you  are  going  on  the  stage." 

"Of  course/'  she  laughed.  "I'll  go  and  get 
ready  at  once." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XXV 

TEN  days  had  passed.  It  was  like  a  dream  to 
Margaret  to  be  in  London  alone,  her  mother  and 
Hannah  at  Woodside  Farm,  and  her  father  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world.  But  she  was  beginning 
to  be  uneasy  at  what  she  had  done — at  taking 
this  step  out  into  the  world  without  her  father's 
knowledge.  Perhaps  he  would  be  angry  with  her, 
or  would  say,  as  Tom  did,  that  she  had  joined  the 
great  army  of  bread  -  snatchers,  the  women  who 
were  not  obliged  to  work  for  their  living,  who  had 
no  genius  to  justify  them,  no  particular  talent 
even,  and  yet  from  sheer  restlessness  and  inabil- 
ity to  settle  down  in  their  homes  and  quietly  fulfil 
the  duties  there,  had  come  out  into  the  open  and 
meddled  with  work  that  others  might  do  better, 
and  for  a  wage  that  meant  to  those  others  not  added 
luxuries  and  frivolities,  but  the  means  of  living. 
She  wished  a  hundred  times  that  Mr.  Garratt  had 
never  come  near  Woodside  Farm,  that  she  had 
never  left  it,  that  she  were  sitting  on  the  arm  of 
her  mother's  chair  in  the  living-room  once  more, 
looking  out  at  the  garden  and  the  beech  wood  be- 
yond ;  but  something  in  her  heart  told  her  that  that 
254 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

happiness  was  forever  at  an  end.  No  one  ap- 
proved of  the  step  she  had  taken  except  her  mother, 
who  had  seen  the  impossibility  of  her  remaining 
at  home.  Hannah  had  shut  the  door  on  her,  and 
Tom  had  shaken  his  head. 

Sir  George  Stringer  had  appeared  as  promptly 
as  possible  after  getting  her  note;  but,  since  he 
was  away  when  it  arrived,  that  was  not  till  a 
couple  of  days  after  she  had  written  it. 

He  was  emphatic  enough. 

"  My  dear  Margaret — I  think  I  may  call  you  that, 
as  I  have  known  your  father  all  my  life  —  this 
is  simply  madness,  and,  what's  more,  it's  wrong/' 
he  said.  "  You  are  not  old  enough  to  choose  your 
life  yet.  Take  my  advice  and  go  back  as  fast  as 
you  can." 

"I  can't,"  she  answered,  dismayed. 

"Of  course  it  was  unpleasant  to  have  the  atten- 
tions of  the  young  man  I  saw."  (Tom  Car  ring- 
ford  had  told  him  the  correct  version  of  that  story.) 
"But  you  have  surely  wit  enough  to  let  him  see 
that  they  are  distasteful  to  you?" 

"I  did— I  did." 

"If  my  sister  were  not  such  an  invalid  I  should 
insist  on  your  going  to  her  at  Folkestone." 

"Oh,  but  I  want  to  stay  in  London,"  she  said, 
firmly,  and  told  him  of  her  engagement  at  Farley's 
Theatre.  He  was  furious,  and  could  not  hide  it. 

"The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  you  like  this  re- 
255 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

hearsing  business.  It's  madness  1 "  he  said.  "  And 
I  expect  you  like  seeing  Master  Tom,  and  that  is 
madness,  too.  He  and  Lena  Lakeman  have  al- 
ways been  fond  of  each  other,  and  you  will  only 
upset  their  relations  with  your  pretty  eyes,  or  ruin 
your  own  peace  of  mind."  A  more  untactful  gen- 
tleman than  Sir  George  in  a  matter  of  this  sort  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  find.  "I  suppose 
you  know  that  he  and  Lena  Lakeman  are  fond  of 
each  other?  She's  fond  of  him,  at  any  rate,  or 
else  it  would  have  been  the  best  thing  in  the  world ; 
'pon  my  soul,  I  wish  some  one  would  marry  you." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  married."  Margaret 
was  indignant,  but  amused  at  his  vehemence. 

"Yes,  you  do,"  he  said,  recovering  his  good 
humor.  "All  girls  want  to  be  married — nice 
girls,  that  is.  Quite  right,  too.  For  my  part,  I 
think  women  ought  to  be  married  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible; if  they  are  single  at  eight-and-twenty,  they 
ought  to  be  shunted  off  to  the  colonies.  They 
are  only  in  the  way  here;  but  they  might  be  of 
some  use  out  there." 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  go  after  my  father 
to  Australia?"  Margaret  asked,  demurely,  with  a 
twinkle  in  her  eye. 

"No,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  that."     He  was 

quite  pacified  by  this  time.     "But  I  think  you 

ought  to  go  home,  and,  if  you  can't  do  that,  you 

had  better  come  and  stay  with  me.     I'm  going  to 

256 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

Chidhurst  myself  at  the  end  of  the  week — day 
after  to-morrow — if  I  can  get  off,  unless  I  go  to 
Dieppe  for  a  few  days  first;  better  come  with  me 
— perhaps  that  wouldn't  do  either.  Ton  my 
soul,  a  young  lady  is  a  very  difficult  thing  to 
manage." 

"  I  am  quite  safe  here,  dear  Sir  George/  she  said. 
"  When  you  are  at  Chidhurst  I  wish  you  would  go 
and  see  my  mother." 

"I'll  go  and  see  your  mother,  and  tell  her  she 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself  to  let  you  stay  here. " 
His  voice  had  become  abstracted;  he  was  evi- 
dently considering  something  in  his  own  mind. 
He  got  up  and  walked  up  and  down  once  or 
twice.  He  turned  and  looked  at  Margaret  half 
wonderingly,  then  at  himself  in  the  glass,  and  at 
her  again.  "My  dear  Margaret,"  he  said,  "I 
dare  say  you  will  think  I  am  as  mad  as  a  hatter, 
but  do  you  think  you  could  marry  me?" 

She  nearly  bounded  off  her  chair. 

"Marry  you?" 

"Well,  really,  it  seems  to  me  that  it's  the  best 
way  out  of  it.  I'm  five  years  older  than  your  fa- 
ther, but  there's  life  in  the  old  dog  yet.  You  are 
a  beautiful  girl — I  thought  so  the  first  moment  I 
saw  you — and  I  could  be  thoroughly  fond  of  you. 
In  fact,  I  believe  I  am  already.  I  have  no  one  be- 
longing to  me  in  the  world  except  my  sister,  and 
I'm  afraid  she  won't  be  here  long,  poor  thing;  no 
•*  257 


MARGARET     VINCENT 

entanglements  of  any  sort— never  had.  Quite 
well  off;  can  give  you  as  many  pretty  things  as 
you  like,  and  I'll  take  care  of  you,  and  not  be 
grumpy.  Do  you  think  you  could?" 

"Oh  no,  I  couldn't,  indeed!"  She  was  still 
staring  at  him,  but  she  put  both  her  hands  into 
his  with  frank  astonishment.  "You  are  very 
kind,  but  you  are — " 

"Old,  eh?" 

"Oh  no,  no!"  she  said,  "but  I'm  a  girl— and  I 
couldn't — " 

"Why  not?  It  seems  to  me  it  would  work  well 
enough,  my  dear." 

"I  couldn't! — I  couldn't!"  she  repeated. 

"Is  it  Master  Tom?"  he  asked,  like  an  idiot. 

"No." 

"Because  he  ought  to  marry  Lena  Lakeman 
and  no  one  else." 

"And  I  can't  marry  any  one,"  she  answered. 

He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  holding  the  hands 
that  she  had  held  out,  looking  at  her  gravely. 
When  he  spoke  there  was  real  feeling  in  his  voice, 
and  Margaret  knew  it. 

"Think  it  over,"  he  said.  "I  would  be  very 
kind  to  you,  dear;  you  should  do  pretty  much  as 
you  liked,  and  there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool,  re- 
member. I  didn't  mean  to  say  this  when  I  came  in 
—hadn't  an  idea  of  it;  but  I  think  it's  a  way  out, 
and  a  good  one.  I  am  very  lonely  sometimes;  I 
258 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

should  be  another  man  if  I  had  a  girl  to  look  after, 
and  an  old  fogy  would  perhaps  delight  in  your 
girlhood  more  than  a  boy  would  know  how  to 
do.  I  think  I'll  run  over  to  Dieppe  for  a  few 
days  instead  of  going  to  Chidhurst,  and  come 
and  hear  what  you  have  to  say  to  me  when  I 
return." 

"It  will  be  just  the  same/'  she  answered. 

"You  don't  know;"  he  shook  her  hand  and  hesi- 
tated, then  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead.  "I 
have  known  your  father  all  my  life,  and  would  do 
well  by  you,"  he  said. 

He  walked  away  from  Great  College  Street  mut- 
tering to  himself.  "Upon  my  life,  I  believe  she's 
in  love  with  Tom.  I  don't  know  what  Hilda  Lake- 
man  will  say  to  it  all.  I  wonder  if  Hilda  was  lying  ? 
She  generally  is.  Pretty  fool  I've  made  of  my- 
self, for  I  don't  believe  the  girl  will  ever  look  at  me. 
I  wish  she  would.  I  suppose  now  she'll  go  and 
tell  Tom;  that  '11  be  the  next  thing,  and  he  will 
laugh  at  me.  Best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  tell  him 
myself,  and  have  done  with  it.  Here!  Hi!"  and 
he  stopped  a  hansom.  "Stratton  Street."  He  got 
in  rather  slowly.  "  I'm  blest  if  there  isn't  a  twinge 
of  gout  in  my  foot  now — just  to  remind  me  that 
I'm  an  ass,  I  suppose."  He  met  Tom  coming  out 
of  his  house, 

"  Just  wanted  to  see  you  for  a  minute — can  you 
come  back?" 

259 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"All  right;  come  along,"  and  Tom  led  the  way 
into  the  house. 

"  Look  here,  my  dear  boy,  I  came  to  speak  to  you 
about  Margaret  Vincent.  You  know  she  wrote 
to  me?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me  sheer  idiotcy — worse,  al- 
most a  crime — that  Vincent's  girl  should  be  here 
alone  in  lodgings  and  apparently  stark,  staring 
mad  about  the  stage. " 

"  I  have  told  her  so — but  I  am  looking  after  her. " 

"  Which  only  makes  matters  worse ;  besides,  the 
Lakemans  won't  like  it." 

"It  doesn't  matter  to  them." 

"Well,  but  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  marry 
Lena  some  day?" 

"I  never  dreamed  of  it." 

"Never  dreamed  of  it?"  Sir  George  repeated, 
looking  at  him  incredulously,  and  then  with  a 
glimmering  of  common -sense  it  occurred  to  him 
not  to  repeat  Mrs.  Lakeman's  confidence.  "But 
you  are  going  to  them  in  Scotland?" 

"I  ought.  Lena's  very  ill,  I  fear,  and  Mrs. 
Lakeman  telegraphs  to  me  every  day  to  go  and 
cheer  them  up." 

"Humph!"  said  Sir  George  to  himself,  "trust 

Hilda  for  knowing  what  she's  about.     Well,"  he 

added,  aloud,  "I  didn't  think  it  was  a  good  thing 

for  that  girl  to  be  here  in  London  alone,  and  I  knew 

260 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

that  you  were  due  in  Scotland  and  belonged  to  the 
Lakemans — " 

"To  the  Lakemans?"  Tom  repeated,  rather  be- 
wildered. 

"So,  when  I  went  round  to  see  her  just  now,  I 
thought  the  only  way  out  of  the  difficulty  was — 
was — well,  the  fact  is,  I  asked  her  to  marry  me." 

"  Lor'  1"  Tom  said,  and  opened  his  blue  eyes  very 
wide.  "  What  did  she  say?" 

"Wouldn't  look  at  me.  Now,  of  course,  I  feel 
that  I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself,  and  upon  my 
life  I  haven't  the  courage  to  go  near  her  again  for 
a  bit.  Think  I'll  run  over  to  Dieppe  and  shake  it 
off.  What  I  want  to  say  is " — he  stopped,  for  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  be  mis- 
managing things  all  round.  "Something  must 
be  done  about  the  girl,  you  know,"  he  said. 

Tom  held  out  his  hand. 

"It's  all  right/'  he  answered;  "don't  worry 
about  her;  I'll  see  that  she  doesn't  come  to  grief." 

Sir  George  looked  back  at  him  and  understood. 
" I  know  you  are  a  good  boy,"  he  said,  and  grasped 
Tom's  hand,  "and  will  do  the  best  you  can.  Don't 
think  me  an  old  fool.  I  did  it  as  much  for  her  sake 
as  my  own.  I  shall  come  back  next  week  and 
look  her  up  again  before  I  go  to  Chidhurst. "  And 
he  took  his  departure. 

But  Tom  stayed  behind,  and  thought  things 
over  more  seriously  than  was  his  wont.  "I  wish 
261 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Mrs.  Lakeman  would  be  quiet,  or  Lena  would  get 
better.  I  ought  to  go  to  them,  I  suppose,  but  can't 
till  this  matter  is  settled."  Then  he  went  down  to 
the  theatre  and  fetched  Margaret  from  her  rehears- 
al; it  was  nearly  three  o'clock  before  it  was  over. 

"  I  have  had  two  telegrams,"  she  told  him.  "  Mr. 
Farley,  I  suppose,  told  Mrs.  Lakeman  that  I  was 
in  London,  and  she  has  sent  me  this." 

He  took  it  from  her  and  read : 

"  Come  and  stay  with  us  here.  Pitlochry — train  leaves 
Euston  to-morrow  night  at  eight;  meet  you  at  Perth; 
ask  Farley  to  see  you  off." 

Mrs.  Lakeman  was  always  practical  and  full 
of  detail.  The  other  telegram  was  from  Lena, 
and  ran: 

"  Do  come,  little  Margaret;  we  want  you.' 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Tom. 

"I  telegraphed  back,  'Thank  you  very  much, 
but  quite  impossible.' " 

"Good!  good!"  but  his  voice  was  a  little  absent. 
He  was  becoming  serious. 

Miss  Hunstan  had  written,  but  from  a  cheering 
point  of  view;  for  she,  too,  had  once  set  out  on  her 
way  through  the  world  alone. 

"I  wish  I'd  been  there  to  receive  you,"  she  said 
in  her  letter;  "but  when  I  come  back  you  will  be 
262 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

in  your  rooms  above,  and  I  in  mine  beneath.  We 
must  be  friends  and  help  each  other." 

" It's  just  like  her,"  said  Tom;  "  but  she's  a  dear, 
you  know.  By-the-way,  I  saw  Stringer  just  now; 
he  told  me  he  had  been  to  see  you." 

"Yes,"  Margaret  answered,  uneasily.  They 
were  in  a  hansom  by  this  time,  driving  to  Great 
College  Street. 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Tom,  maliciously. 

"He  was  very  kind,"  she  answered — the  color 
came  to  her  face ;  "  he  said  I  oughtn't  to  be  in  Lon- 
don alone." 

"Quite  right!"  and  Tom  thought  that  she  was 
a  nice  girl  not  to  betray  her  elderly  lover;  a  pro- 
posal was  a  thing  that  every  woman  should  regard 
as  confidential — unless  she  accepted  it,  of  course. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XXVI 

ANOTHER  week  and  the  whole  world  had  changed. 
Margaret  forgot  Hannah  and  Woodside  Farm; 
sometimes  she  even  forgot  her  longing  to  see 
her  mother's  face  again.  She  was  blind  to  the 
people  in  the  street,  to  everything  about  her;  her 
ambition  to  be  an  actress  was  lulled  into  pleas- 
ant abeyance.  A  great  happiness  dawned  in  her 
heart — she  did  not  try  to  put  a  name  to  it ;  she  did 
not  even  know  it  to  be  there ;  but  the  whole  world 
seemed  to  be  full  of  it,  and  in  the  world  there  was 
just  one  person — Tom  Carringford.  He  came  to 
her  every  day;  in  some  sort  of  fashion  he  consti- 
tuted himself  her  guardian,  though  they  preserved 
the  happy  playfellow  terms  of  boy  and  girl.  They 
made  all  manner  of  innocent  expeditions  together 
— to  Battersea  Park,  where  they  rowed  about  in  a 
boat  on  the  lake,  and  then  drove  back  to  dine  in 
Margaret's  little  sitting-room  (a  simple  dinner 
that  Mrs.  Oilman  arranged) ;  to  Richmond,  where 
they  dined  by  an  open  window  and  drove  back 
again  before  it  was  dark,  for  Tom,  with  all  his 
exuberance,  had  an  occasional  uneasy  sense  of 
conventionality,  though  he  said  nothing  about  it 
264 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

to  Margaret.  "  I  don't  want  to  put  her  up  to  things ; 
she  is  much  too  nice  as  she  is/'  he  thought.  They 
went  to  Chiswick  and  Kew;  they  talked  about 
Pope  at  Twickenham  and  walked  along  the  tow- 
path;  to  Bushey  and  Hampton  Court,  and  had 
tea — by  an  open  window  again — at  the  old-fash- 
ioned inn,  and  returned  in  the  cool  of  the  evening. 
One  day  they  went  to  the  Zoo,  where  they  laughed 
at  the  animals  and  fed  the  monkeys,  and  again 
had  tea,  and  ate  so  many  cucumber  sandwiches 
that  they  were  ashamed  to  count  them  —  for 
it  was  a  proof  of  their  youth  and  unsophistica- 
tion  that  they  generally  made  eating  a  part  of 
their  entertainment  when  they  went  out  to- 
gether. 

They  lived  only  for  each  other,  yet  neither  stopped 
to  realize  it,  till  at  the  end  of  ten  days  Tom  was 
roused  to  a  sense  of  what  was  happening  by  a  let- 
ter from  Mrs.  Lakeman.  Lena  was  very  ill  in- 
deed, she  said,  and  had  been  waiting  day  after 
day  for  Tom;  why  hadn't  he  come?  She  had 
heard  from  Sir  George  Stringer  that  the  Vincent 
girl  was  in  town — was  Tom  aware  of  it?  Prob- 
ably she  was  too  much  taken  up  with  the  young 
grocer  from  Guildford  to  have  made  a  sign  to  him? 
This  was  an  unwise  remark  for  so  tactful  a  wom- 
an as  Mrs.  Lakeman,  for  it  made  Tom  snort  in- 
dignantly, and  it  brought  home  to  him  the  diffi- 
culties of  Margaret's  position.  Just  as  he  was 
265 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

starting  to  meet  her  after  the  rehearsal  that  after- 
noon a  telegram  arrived : 

"  Come  immediately;  Lena  dangerously  ill." 

"Whewl"  he  said,  "I  must  go  by  the  eight- 
o'clock  mail  this  evening/'  He  turned  back  to  tell 
his  man  to  pack  a  bag,  take  tickets,  and  meet 
him  at  Euston,  then  drove  to  the  theatre  to  find 
that  the  rehearsal  was  over  and  every  one  gone. 
He  went  on  as  fast  as  possible  to  Great  College 
Street. 

Margaret  tried  not  to  show  her  consternation, 
but  her  face  betrayed  her. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  Sir  George  told  me  you  be- 
longed to  Lena — but  that  isn't  true,  is  it?" 

"Of  course  not/'  he  answered,  staring  at  her, 
and  wondering  that  she  could  repeat  anything  so 
absurd;  "but  they  have  been  very  kind  to  me, 
and  I  ought  to  go.  Besides,"  he  added,  for  Tom 
was  always  loyal,  "  I  like  them  both. "  He  stopped 
a  minute,  and  then  he  said,  suddenly,  "I  wish 
you  would  give  up  the  theatre." 

"I  can't,"  but  her  tone  was  not  so  positive  as  it 
had  been. 

"You  know,"  he  began,  slowly,  "I  have  been 
thinking  a  great  deal  about  things  lately,  and 
wondering — " 

"Yes." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to  tell  you— I'm  rather 
266 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

afraid;  suppose  we  go  and  drive  about  a  bit,  and 
perhaps  you  shall  know  when  we  come  in." 

"It's  such  a  rum  thing/'  he  thought,  when  she 
had  gone  to  get  her  hat,  "that  she  should  be  liv- 
ing here  alone;  I  feel  as  if  I  simply  can't  go  away 
and  leave  her.  And  if  I  say  anything  and  she 
doesn't  care  for  me,  it  will  be  all  up,  and  I  shall  find 
myself  where  poor  old  Stringer  is.  I  wonder  if  he's 
got  over  it  a  bit,  and  will  come  and  look  after  her 
while  I  am  away  in  Scotland."  Sir  George  had  re- 
turned from  Dieppe  the  day  before,  but  he  had  been 
shy  of  going  near  Margaret.  Tom  had  seen  him  in 
the  street  and  thought  it  wise  not  to  recognize  him. 

Margaret  came  in  ready  to  go  out.  She  wore 
a  white  dress  and  a  black  hat  that  drooped  a  little 
on  one  side  with  the  heaviness  of  its  trimming. 
There  was  a  thin  gold  chain  round  her  neck;  he 
knew  that  the  locket  attached  to  it  contained  her 
mother's  hair.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment, 
at  her  blue  eyes  and  proud  lips,  and  her  slim,  tall 
figure,  and  his  reticence  went  to  the  winds. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  I  am  going  to-night,"  he 
said. 

"And  I  can't,"  she  answered,  almost  without 
being  aware  of  it. 

Then  it  seemed  as  if  fate  took  hold  of  him  and 

forced  him  to  speak.     "Margaret,"  he  said,  and 

his  tone  brought  the  color  to  her  face,  "this  can't 

go  on;  it  will  have  to  come  to  an  end  somehow. 

267 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

You  know  we  like  being  together — it's  glorious, 
isn't  it?  But— I  have  grown  fond  of  you— I  can't 
help  it.  I  wonder  if  you  like  me,  if  you  care  for  me 
—it  would  make  everything  so  easy.  I  love  you 
—more  than  anything  in  the  world,  and  you  al- 
ways seem  happy  enough  with  me.  Do  you  think 
you  could  stand  it  always.  Cut  the  theatre,  you 
know,  and  all  that  at  once,  and  marry  me?" 

"Oh,  Tom!"  she  said,  and  without  any  rhyme 
or  reason  she  burst  into  tears  and  sat  down  on 
the  little  sofa,  for  it  seemed  as  if  the  floodgates  of 
heaven  had  opened  and  poured  its  happiness  into 
her  heart — just  as  it  had  seemed  to  her  mother 
once  in  the  best  parlor  at  Woodside  Farm. 

"My  darling!"  he  said,  "My  little  darling, 
what  is  the  matter?"  He  knelt  down  by  her  and 
pulled  her  hat -pin  out.  "Ghastly  long  thing," 
he  said  to  himself,  even  in  that  moment,  "enough 
to  kill  one."  He  stuck  it  into  the  back  of  the  sofa, 
took  off  her  hat  and  flung  it — her  best  hat — to  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  and  gathered  her  into  his 
arms  and  kissed  her.  "  Why,  what  are  you  crying 
for?"  he  asked.  "I  have  not  frightened  you,  have 
I?"  But  his  tone  was  triumphant,  for  since  she 
made  no  resistance  he  thought  it  must  be  all  right, 
so  he  wisely  went  on  kissing  her,  for  there  is  noth- 
ing like  making  the  most  of  an  opportunity — espe- 
cially a  first  one. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  — you  mustn't!"  she  said, 
268 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

afraid  lest  he  should  see  the  shame  and  the  joy 
in  her  eyes. 

"  You  know  this  is  what  it  means/'  he  said, hold- 
ing her  closer.  "Why,  we  liked  each  other  from 
the  first,  didn't  we?  Think  what  a  spree  we  had 
that  morning  when  we  came  here  with  the  flowers." 

"I  know/'  she  whispered;  "but  I  can't  be  mar- 
ried." 

"Why  not?" 

"It  seems  so  strange." 

"You'll  get  used  to  it." 

"  And  father  is  away." 

"All  the  more  reason." 

"But  we  can't,  till  he  comes  back." 

"  Yes,  we  can;  there  are  plenty  of  churches  about. 
By-the-way,  you  don't  go  to  one,  do  you?  You 
know,  I  never  thought  much  of  those  unbeliefs  of 
yours." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  struggling 
out  of  his  arms  and  trying  to  be  collected  and  sen- 
sible, but  finding  it  rather  difficult. 

"Well,  you  know,  I  think  people  often  believe 
in  things  and  don't  know  it,  or  don't  believe  in 
anything  and  yet  imagine  they  do.  I  can't  see 
that  it  matters  myself,  so  long  as  one  tries  to  do  the 
right  thing.  If  all  the  roads  lead  to  heaven,  it 
doesn't  matter  what  language  one  talks  on  the 
journey,  or  whether  one  arrives  in  a  monk's  cowl 
or  with  a  feather  in  one's  cap." 
269 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"You  are  talking  nonsense/'  she  said,  look- 
ing at  his  face  and  thinking  what  a  dear  one 
it  was. 

"  Of  course  I  am ;  we  are  much  too  happy  to  talk 
anything  else.  By-the-way,  I  ought  to  beg  your 
pardon  for  thinking  you  cared  about  Garratt." 

"I  think  you  ought/'  she  laughed. 

"Though  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  any  better 
than  he  is/'  he  added,  modestly.  "I  say,  you  do 
care  for  me,  don't  you?  You  know  you  haven't 
said  it  yet." 

"I  do  care  for  you,"  she  said. 

"When  did  you  begin?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  don't  know  a  bit,  Tom  dear, 
but  what  I  have  felt  is  that—" 

"Yes,  go  on." 

" — That  it  was  the  greatest  happiness  in  the  world 
to  be  with  you.  Why,  I  have  simply  laughed  for 
joy  at  the  sound  of  your  step,  and  when  you  are 
away  I  think  of  you  all  the  time  and  every  minute, 
and  I  don't  even  care  for  the  theatre  now,  or  for 
being  an  actress." 

"Good!  good! "he  cried, triumphantly.  "Goon." 

"And  I  am  so  happy  now,"  she  continued — "so 
stifled  and  overcome  with  happiness  that  I  feel  as 
if  I  should  die  of  it." 

"Oh,  well,  don't  do  that— it's  quite  unneces- 
sary, and  it  would  be  rather  a  bore,  you  know. 
When  shall  we  be  married?" 
270 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Oh,  but—" 

"There's  nothing  to  wait  for.  I've  got  enough 
money,  and  the  house  in  Stratton  Street  is  literally 
gaping  for  you  to  go  and  live  in  it.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  only  thing  to  be  done  is  to  get  a  ring  and  a 
license." 

"But  we  can't  be  married  till  father  knows;  we 
can't,  indeed." 

"  All  right,  dear ;  we'll  send  him  a  cable.  We 
might  send  your  mother  a  telegram  at  the  same 
time — what  do  you  think?" 

Margaret  considered  for  a  moment.  "How 
soon,  do  you  think,  I  could  give  up  the  theatre?" 
she  asked. 

"Why,  this  very  minute,  of  course.  I'll  write  to 
Farley  before  I  start,  and  so  shall  you,  and  tell  him 
all  about  it. " 

"  But  can  he  get  any  one  in  my  place  immedi- 
ately?" 

"Of  course;  probably  a  whole  crowd  are  waiting 
round  the  stage  door  ready  to  jump  into  it.  There 
are  too  many  people  in  the  world  who  want  to 
work — too  many  who  must  work,"  he  added,  with 
a  shade  of  seriousness;  "but  what  about  your 
mother?" 

"  Why,  if  I  really  needn't  go  to  the  theatre  any 
more,  we  won't  telegraph.     I  should  so  love  to 
tell  her.     She  liked  you,  you  know — she  liked  you 
so  much.     I'll  go  home  to-morrow  and  tell  her." 
271 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Good!  good!  But  what  about  Hannah;  will 
she  let  you  in?" 

"I  think  she  will,  when  she  knows  that  I  am 
not  going  to  be  an  actress— and  about  this." 

"She  might  think  you  are  doing  worse." 

"No,  she  won't." 

"Well,  that's  settled;  now  we'll  send  the  cable. 
Let's  write  it  out  here,  then  we  need  only  copy  it 
out  in  the  office.  Where  is  your  paper?"  he  asked, 
impulsively,  going  to  the  writing-table.  "Now 
then.  'Carringford  to  Vincent.  May  I  marry 
Margaret?— Tom.'  Will  that  do?"  he  asked. 

"Splendidly,"  she  laughed. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  send  one  on  your  own 
account." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  joyfully ;  so  a  second  cable 
was  written.  '  Vincent  to  Vincent.  Please  say 
yes. — Margaret.'  Will  that  do?"  she  echoed. 

"Splendid!"  he  echoed  back.  "What  a  glori- 
ous girl  you  are,  Margey — your  mother  called 
you  Margey,  you  know.  I  think  I  should  like  to 
send  one  to  your  mother,  not  telling  her,  of  course, 
but  as  a  sort  of  preface — enough  to  make  her  guess 
something."  He  considered  for  a  moment  and 
then  he  wrote.  '  Tom  Carringford  sends  his  love 
to  you.'  "It  shall  go  as  if  it  were  a  little  mes- 
sage flying  out  of  space."  He  stopped  and  con- 
sidered again.  "I  should  like  the  Lakemans  to 
know  before  I  get  there.  I  have  telegraphed  al- 
272 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

ready  to  say  that  I  start  to-night;  but  if  Lena's 
very  ill,  it  looks  rather  cruel  to  burst  upon  them 
with  news  of  happiness." 

"Must  they  be  told  at  once?"  Margaret  asked. 
For  some  reason  she  dreaded  their  knowing. 

"Well,  they've  always  been  so  kind  to  me." 
Almost  mechanically  he  took  up  his  pen  and  wrote : 
'  Margaret  and  I  want  you  to  know  that  we  are 
engaged,  but,  of  course,  I  start  alone  to-night.  Kind 
love.  —  Tom.'  Margaret  kept  her  lips  closed,  for 
she  thought  of  the  Lakemans  with  a  dislike  that 
was  almost  beyond  her  control,  but  she  felt  that  her 
father's  memories,  no  less  than  the  fact  that  they 
were  Tom's  friends,  demanded  her  silence.  "  Now 
then,"  he  said, "  that's  all  over.  Where's'your  hat?" 

"Over  there,  on  the  floor,"  she  answered,  de- 
murely, "upside  down — my  best  hat." 

"Never  mind,  I'll  give  you  a  dozen  new  ones. 
Let's  send  off  these  things  and  go  for  an  hour's 
drive  in  the  fastest  hansom  we  can  find — just  to 
calm  us  down  a  little.  Then,  suppose  we  come 
back  and  dine  quietly  here  at  seven.  Mrs.  Gil- 
man  will  manage  it.  I  shall  have  to  fly  at  half- 
past."  Tom  reflected  quickly  that  Great  College 
Street  was  the  best  shelter  for  a  quiet  tete-a-tete. 
"Come  along."  He  took  her  hand  and  ran  with 
her  down  the  narrow  staircase.  "I  don't  believe 
you  know  how  fond  I  am  of  you,  but  you'll  find 
out  in  time,"  he  said,  stopping  half-way. 
>8  273 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"I  do  know,"  she  answered,  "and  I  love  you— 
dreadfully." 

He  looked  at  her  and  kissed  her,  then  a  happy 
thought  struck  him. 

"Mrs.  Oilman, "  he  called,  boisterously,  for  there 
were  no  other  people  in  the  house,  "I  want  to  tell 
you,"  he  said,  when  that  good  woman  appeared, 
"that  Miss  Vincent  and  I  are  engaged." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Carringford!" 

"It's  all  right,"  he  added,  rather  afraid  she  was 
going  to  cry.  "We  are  coming  back  presently, 
and  you  must  give  us  some  dinner  at  seven  sharp. 
I  start  for  Scotland  at  eight — from  Euston — so  let 
it  be  quite  punctual.  Now,  Margey."  He  looked 
back  and  spoke  to  Mrs.  Gilman  again.  "We'll 
stop  in  Stratton  Street,"  he  said,  "and  tell  my 
man  to  bring  round  a  couple  of  bottles  of  cham- 
pagne. You  must  keep  one  and  drink  our  healths. 
Keep  the  other  cool  and  send  it  up  at  dinner.  Oh, 
that's  all  right.  Great  fun,  isn't  it?" 

"Tom,"  said  Margaret,  as  they  drove  away; 
"what  do  you  think  Mrs.  Lakeman  will  say?" 

"Why,  she'll  be  delighted,  of  course,  and  so  will 
Lena." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XXVII 

MR.  DAWSON  FARLEY  had  a  flat  in  Victoria 
Street.  He  came  down  at  nine  o'clock  and  leis- 
urely opened  his  letters.  The  one  from  Margaret, 
telling  him  of  her  engagement  to  Tom,  was  on 
the  top.  Tom,  who  had  known  his  private  ad- 
dress, had  advised  her  to  send  it  there  and  not 
to  the  theatre.  Mr.  Farley  started  when  he  read 
it.  "Now,  this  is  the  devil!"  he  said.  "I  thought 
that  girl  couldn't  be  in  London  without  getting 
into  some  mischief.  It's  lucky  I  wrote  and  told 
Hilda  about  her;  but  I  expect  it's  too  late  to  do 
anything.  It  may  make  a  serious  difference,  for 
I  can't  stand  that  wriggling  snake,  Lena,  in  any 
house  in  which  I  have  to  live.  Why  the  deuce 
hasn't  Hilda  written?"  he  went  on,  as  he  looked 
through  his  letters;  "perhaps  wants  to  take  time 
or  to  worry  one  a  little,  but  I  didn't  think  she  was 
that  sort  of  woman."  Almost  as  he  said  the  last 
word,  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Lakeman  walked 
in.  She  wore  a  billycock  hat  and  a  long  cloak; 
she  looked  almost  rowdy. 

"Dawson,"  she  said,  with  her  odd,  crooked  smile, 
"I  thought  it  better  to  come  up  and  answer  your 
275 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

letter  in  person;  I  travelled  all  night  and  have  just 
arrived." 

"You  dear  woman,"  he  said,  feeling  that  he 
ought  to  be  equal  to  the  occasion.  "I  knew  you 
would  do  the  very  best  thing." 

"I'm  going  to  do  the  very  worst,"  she  answered; 
"I'm  going  to  refuse  you." 

"Refuse  me?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Only  because  I  don't  feel  like  marrying,  dear 
friend,"  and  she  rolled  some  feeling  into  her  voice. 
"  Have  you  forgotten  that  I  am  an  old  frump  with 
gray  hair?"  She  took  off  the  billycock  hat  and 
bent  her  head,  just  as  she  had  done  to  Gerald  Vin- 
cent. 

"I  don't  care,"  he  said,  "I  want  you."  He  put 
an  arm  round  her  shoulder  in  a  well-considered 
manner. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  you,"  she  said;  "I  have  a 
great  affection  for  you,  but  I'm  not  going  to  be  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  town — a  middle-aged  frump 
marrying  an  actor  a  little  younger  than  herself. 
Let's  go  on  as  we  are,  anyhow  till  Lena  is  married." 

"Then  what  did  you  come  up  for?" 

"It  was  quite  time,"  she  answered,  dryly.  "I 
suppose  you  know  the  Vincent  girl  is  engaged  to 
Tom  Carringford?" 

*'  She  has  just  written  to  tell  me,  and  thrown  up 
the  theatre  business." 

"She  sha'n't  have  him,  the  little  devil!"  Mrs. 
276 


MARGARET    Y1NCENT 

Lakeman  exclaimed.  "I'll  take  good  care  of  that; 
I  have,"  she  added,  "for  he's  at  Pitlochry  by  this 
time." 

"At  Pitlochry?"  Farley  exclaimed. 

"  Having  breakfast  with  Lena.  Lena,  in  a  mus- 
lin morning  gown  lying  on  a  sofa  —  Tom  hold- 
ing her  hand — the  rest  you  can  imagine." 

"This  is  madness!     I  don't  understand." 

Mrs.  Lakeman's  blue  eyes  were  full  of  wicked- 
ness. "I  knew  something  was  wrong  from  his 
letters,  so  I  have  been  careful  to  tell  him  that  Lena 
wasn't  well,  and  to  make  a  few  remarks  about 
Margaret  Vincent  and  the  young  grocer  at  Guild- 
ford,  which  I  didn't  think  would  please  him  alto- 
gether. As  he  didn't  come  and  didn't  write,  I 
thought  it  as  well  yesterday  morning  to  telegraph 
and  let  him  know  that  she  was  dangerously  ill." 

"Which  was  strictly  untrue,  I  suppose?" 

"  Strictly,"  she  answered,  with  much  relish.  "  But 
he  answered  at  once  that  he  would  start  at  eight 
o'clock  last  night,  and  he's  there  this  morning." 

"He  must  have  proposed  to  Miss  Vincent  yes- 
terday afternoon.  I  didn't  know  that  she  had 
even  seen  Carringford  till  three  days  ago,  when  I 
came  upon  him  at  the  stage  door  waiting  for  her 
in  a  hansom." 

"It's  a  great  pity.  It  shouldn't  have  gone  so 
far,  if  I'd  known  in  time." 

"But,  after  all,  why  should  you  interfere?"  he 
277 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

asked,  thinking  that,  if  Mrs.  Lakeman  were  not 
going  to  marry  him,  he  didn't  take  any  particular 
interest  in  Lena's  making  a  good  marriage.  "  Car- 
ringford  is  a  good  fellow,  and  Miss  Vincent's  an 
uncommonly  handsome  girl.  Why  shouldn't  they 
have  each  other?" 

"And  break  Lena's  heart?"  she  said,  raising 
her  eyes  to  his.  "Besides,  Tom  belongs  to  us, 
and  no  one  shall  take  him  away." 

"Still,  it  isn't  quite  fair  to  Miss  Vincent,  and  I 
don't  much  care  to  help  in  the  matter,"  he  an- 
swered, quite  pleasantly,  but  with  determination; 
"  besides,  if  you  are  not  going  to  marry  me,  why 
should  I — where  do  I  come  in?" 

In  a  moment  she  saw  the  whole  drift  of  his  rea- 
soning. 

"I  shall  marry  no  one,"  she  answered,  "until 
Lena's  future  is  settled." 

"And  if  Lena  marries  Carringford?" 

"Then  you  shall  have  your  answer.  You  must 
see  that  a  young  man  like  you  would  look  rather 
ridiculous  going  about  with  a  middle-aged  wife 
and  a  grown-up  step-daughter." 

He  saw  her  policy;  it  was  odd  how  well  they  saw 
through  each  other;  he  recognized  her  adroitness 
and  her  falseness,  but  it  made  no  difference  in  his 
point  of  view;  to  marry  her  would  be  a  worldly- 
wise  transaction  that  he  did  not  mean  to  forego 
if  he  could  help  it,  and  he  wanted  Lena  out  of  the 
278 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

way.  After  all,  he  thought,  if  Margaret  didn't 
marry  Carringford,  she  would  probably  do  still 
better — a  handsome  girl,  well  born,  and  probably 
well  off  when  her  father  came  back.  And  even 
if  she  were  in  love  now,  what  did  it  matter?  She 
would  be  all  the  better  for  a  disappointment,  per- 
haps :  a  woman  who  had  not  been  made  to  suffer 
generally  became  a  trifle  heartless.  Besides,  what 
was  the  girl  to  him?" 

"Where  is  Margaret  Vincent  staying?"  asked 
Mrs.  Lakeman.  "When  I  invited  her  to  Scotland 
I  telegraphed  to  the  theatre,  not  knowing  her  pri- 
vate address,  and  she  telegraphed  back  without 
giving  it,  which  I  thought  rather  impertinent. 
Tom,  too,  has  only  thought  proper  to  send  a  tele- 
gram every  other  day  lately." 

"He  has  been  too  much  occupied  with  other 
things,"  Farley  said,  with  a  little  smile. 

"Where  is  she  staying?" 

"In  Louise  Hunstan's  house,  in  Great  College 
Street.  Louise  is  at  Bayreuth." 

"That's  a  good  thing.  I'm  going" — and  the 
tone  of  her  voice  showed  that  she  meant  to  be  vic- 
torious. "You  may  give  me  a  kiss" — and  she 
put  up  her  face — "a  matter-of-fact  salute  on  my 
cheek  would  be  highly  appropriate  to  the  situa- 
tion." 

"Stay  a  moment — when  are  you  going  back?" 
he  asked,  as  he  followed  .her  to  the  door. 
279 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"To-night,  at  eight.  I  shall  see  Tom  to-mor- 
row morning  at  breakfast;  he  won't  even  know 
that  I  have  been  in  London.  I  am  supposed  to  be 
ill  in  my  room,"  she  laughed.  "  Violent  neuralgia ; 
not  able  to  see  anybody." 

"You  are  a  wonderful  woman!"  Farley  said,  as 
he  let  her  out.  "  But  I'm  not  sure  that  I  could  stand 
her,"  he  thought  as  he  went  back  to  his  letters; 
"she  is  a  little  too  diplomatic  for  my  taste." 

"  It  was  like  Farley's  impudence  to  think  I  should 
marry  him,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  said  to  herself  as  she 
drove  along.  "He's  not  quite  in  my  line,  I  can 
tell  him.  Still,  he  adds  a  little  amusement  to  the 
occasion."  She  was  full  of  pleasant  excitement, 
curious  to  see  how  much  her  dramatic  power  would 
accomplish  with  Margaret,  and  resolved,  at  any 
rate,  to  thoroughly  enjoy  the  interview. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XXVIII 

MARGARET  meanwhile  awoke  full  of  happiness. 
She  was  engaged  to  Tom  Carringf  ord ;  she  was  go- 
ing back  to  her  mother  to-day — it  seemed  too  good 
to  be  true.  A  telegram  came  from  Tom  before  she 
had  finished  her  breakfast ;  he  was  safe  at  Perth, 
and  just  starting  onward.  She  wondered  how 
Lena  was,  and  what  her  illness  could  be.  It  was 
dreadful  for  Mrs.  Lakeman,  she  thought,  and  she 
was  glad  that  Tom  was  gone.  The  post  brought 
a  letter  from  her  mother;  it  was  dated  two  days 
ago ;  but  they  were  slow  in  posting  things  at  Wood- 
side  Farm ;  probably  it  had  been  put  on  one  side 
and  forgotten.  Mrs.  Vincent  was  not  very  well, 
it  was  only  a  cold,  but  it  had  affected  her  heart,  the 
doctor  said,  and  she  must  be  kept  very  quiet ;  there 
was  not  the  least  danger,  and  she  would  write  again 
to-morrow.  She  begged  Margaret  not  to  think  of 
coming,  for  Hannah  was  very  bitter — she  doubted 
if  she  would  let  her  in,  and  Mr.  Garratt  had  been 
there  yesterday  and  made  matters  worse.  "  Hannah 
is  fond  of  saying/'  Mrs.  Vincent  went  on,  "that 
the  door  is  locked  and  barred  against  you,  and 
shall  remain  so  till  she  is  forced  to  open  it.  She 
281 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

told  Mr.  Garratt  so  yesterday  when  he  wanted 
your  address.  He  said  he  should  never  care  for 
anybody  but  you,  and  she  told  him  not  to  come 
here  again,  and  that  if  he  did  he  should  find  the 
doors  shut,  as  you  would.  Perhaps  it  will  be  bet- 
ter when  we  have  had  a  letter  from  your  father,  for 
she  was  always  in  some  fear  of  him." 

While  Margaret  was  still  reading  the  letter  there 
came  the  sound  of  wheels  in  the  cobbled  street. 
Something  stopped  in  front  of  the  house;  a  loud 
knock  echoed  through  it  and  made  Margaret  start 
to  her  feet.  For  one  horrible  moment  it  struck 
her  that  Mr.  Garratt  had  found  her  out.  Then  the 
door  opened  and  Mrs.  Lakeman  entered.  Her  face 
was  drawn,  her  lips  were  firmly  shut,  a  strange, 
uncanny  expression  was  in  her  eyes. 

"Margaret!"  she  exclaimed.  "Margaret  Vin- 
cent, my  old  lover's  child.  I  have  come  to  throw 
myself  on  your  mercy."  She  pushed  Margaret 
back  on  the  sofa,  threw  herself  down  by  her,  and 
burst  into  what  sounded  like  hysterical  tears. 

Mrs.  Lakeman  had  got  her  dramatic  moment. 
^  Margaret  was  aghast.     "Oh!"  she  exclaimed. 
" Is  it  Lena?    Has  anything  happened  to  her?" 

Mrs.  Lakeman  struggled  for  utterance;  when  she 
gained  it  her  words  were  thick,  her  voice  desperate. 
"I  have  come  to  ask  you  for  her  life!"  she  said. 

"Me?" 

"Your  telegram  has  killed  her." 
282 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Oh!"  Margaret's  face  blanched,  for  she  saw 
what  was  coming.  Mrs.  Lakeman  raised  herself, 
and  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and  took  Margaret's 
hands,  and  looked  at  her  with  eyes  as  strangely 
blue  as  they  were  mocking. 

"Margaret,"  she  said,  "I  have  done  a  desper- 
ate thing ;  but  my  child  has  been  ill,  she  has  been 
fretting  and  waiting  for  her  lover — for  the  boy  who 
has  always  been  her  lover.  She  can't  bear  separa- 
tion from  him.  Yesterday  morning  I  sent  for  him, 
and  told  him  she  was  dangerously  ill;  at  five 
o'clock  your  telegram — " 

"It  was  Tom's  telegram." 

Mrs.  Lakeman  was  impatient  at  the  interrup- 
tion. "Tom's  telegram,  then — came.  By  an  ac- 
cident it  was  given  into  her  hands  instead  of  mine, 
and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  was  bending  over 
her  wondering  if  she  would  ever  open  her  eyes 
again.  Tom  has  been  ours — all  his  life,"  Mrs. 
Lakeman  went  on,  vehemently;  "he  and  she  have 
grown  up  together ;  he  has  always  loved  her ;  he 
has  done  everything  for  us ;  they  have  never  been 
three  days  apart  till  we  went  to  Scotland  the  other 
day.  She  worships  him,  and  it  has  been  the  one 
hope  of  my  life  to  see  them  married.  She  has 
never  dreamed  of  anything  else ;  he  is  the  air  she 
breathes  and  the  world  she  lives  in.  When  that 
telegram  came  yesterday  it  struck  her  like  a 
death-blow." 

283 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

"Oh,  but  Tom  and  I  love  each  other/'  Margaret 
cried,  in  despair. 

"No,  dear,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  answered,  impres- 
sively. "  You  must  know  the  truth,  for  my  child's 
life  hangs  on  it.  He  does  not  love  you — he  loves 
her.  He  may  have  been  infatuated  with  you  dur- 
ing the  last  fortnight  in  which  he  has  been  parted 
from  her.  It's  so  like  Tom,"  she  added,  with  a  lit- 
tle smile,  for  she  found  the  tragic  r61e  a  difficult 
one  to  maintain.  "He  has  been  infatuated  so 
often." 

"So  often?"  repeated  Margaret,  incredulously. 

"Oh  yes,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  answered,  and  the 
odd  smile  came  to  her  lips.  "You  wouldn't  be- 
lieve how  many  times  he  has  come  to  confess  to 
me  that  he  has  made  an  idiot  of  himself.  He  is 
always  falling  in  love,  and  getting  engaged,  and 
going  to  be  married." 

"I  can't  believe  it  I  I  won't  believe  it!"  Mar- 
garet cried,  passionately. 

"It's  quite  true,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  answered, 
coolly.  "Generally  I  have  managed  to  conceal 
everything  from  Lena,  and  to  get  him  out  of  his 
scrapes— I  have  known  perfectly  well  that  they 
were  only  boyish  nonsense,  for  at  the  bottom  of 
his  heart,  Margaret  Vincent,"  she  went  on,  resum- 
ing her  solemnity,  "he  loves  no  one  but  my  child; 
any  other  woman  would  be  miserable  with  him. 
You  won't  give  him  any  trouble?"  she  asked,  in- 
284 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

sultingly;  "you  will  give  him  up  quietly,  won't 
you?" 

"I  can't  —  I  can't  believe  it." 

"You  would  have  believed  it,"  Mrs.  Lakeman 
said,  slowly,  opening  her  eyes  wide,  and  this  time 
contriving  to  keep  the  humor  out  of  them,  "  if  you 
saw  her  lying  straight  and  still  in  her  little  room 
at  Pitlochry,  as  she  would  have  been  now  but  for 
my  presence  of  mind." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Margaret  asked,  a  little 
scared  by  Mrs.  Lakeman's  manner. 

"You  mustn't  ask  me."  She  dropped  her  voice, 
and  the  words  appeared  to  be  dragged  from  her. 
"I  can't  tell  you;  it  shall  never  pass  my  lips.  I 
shouldn't  dare  to  tell  you,"  she  whispered.  "I 
have  left  her  with  a  woman  I  can  trust,  more 
dead  than  alive.  I  told  her  I  would  come  and 
ask  her  life  of  you,  and  I've  come  to  ask  it, 
Margaret.  You  are  your  father's  child,  and 
will  do  the  straight  and  just  thing  by  another 


woman 


"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  Margaret  said,  des- 
perately, and,  rising  quickly,  she  walked  up  and 
down,  clasping  her  head  in  her  hands,  trying  to 
think  clearly.  The  whole  thing  was  theatrical 
and  unreal,  and  the  mocking  look  in  Mrs.  Lake- 
man's eyes  nearly  drove  her  mad. 

"It  won't  break  your  heart  to  give  him  up;  it 
can't."  Mrs.  Lakeman's  tone  was  a  trifle  con- 
285 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

temptuous.  "You  were  in  love  with  the  other 
young  man  only  a  few  weeks  ago." 

"I  was  never  in  love  with  Mr.  Garratt,"  Mar- 
garet answered,  indignantly — "never  for  a  mo- 
ment." 

"  You  may  think  so  now,  just  as  Tom  thinks  he 
cares  for  you;  but  you  did  care  for  him.  George 
Stringer  saw  it  directly,  and  Tom  saw  it  the  day 
he  had  tea  with  you  all.  In  fact,  he  thought  it  was 
more  on  your  side  than  on  his,"  she  added,  watch- 
ing the  effect  of  her  words  with  an  amusement 
she  could  scarcely  control.  "He  came  and  told 
us  about  it  at  once — he  tells  us  everything — he  was 
so  funny  when  he  described  it  all  to  us,"  Mrs. 
Lakeman  added,  as  if  the  remembrance  were  highly 
diverting.  Then  recovering,  she  asked,  in  a  deep 
voice :  "  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Margaret ; 
are  you  going  to  give  me  back  my  child's  life?" 

"I  am  going  to  wait  and  see  Tom,  and  hear 
what  he  says." 

"I  can't  believe  you  will  be  so  cruel." 

"I  don't  understand,"  Margaret  cried,  desper- 
ately. "If  Lena  is  so  very  ill,  if  she  is  dying, 
why  have  you  left  her?" 

"  Because  I  knew  that  there  was  only  one  thing 
that  could  save  her." 

"You  must  have  started  directly  you  got  the 
telegram." 

"  I  did— as  soon  as  she  recovered  her  senses.  I 
286 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

told  you  she  was  with  some  one  I  could  trust;  I 
have  been  in  the  train  all  night."  From  her  tone 
it  might  have  been  a  torture-chamber.  "I  have 
come  to  throw  myself  on  your  mercy.  I  felt  that 
for  a  fortnight's  foolish  infatuation  you  couldn't 
be  so  cruel  as  to  wreck  my  child's  whole  life.  Your 
father  would  not  let  you  do  it,  Margaret.  Be 
worthy  of  him,  dear;  be  the  noble  woman  you 
ought  to  be  and  give  him  up." 

Mrs.  Gilman  entered  with  two  telegrams.  Mrs. 
Lakeman  gave  a  little  suppressed  shriek;  but 
there  was  unreality  in  it,  and  Margaret  felt  it  at 
the  back  of  her  head. 

"There's  one  for  you,  ma'am,  and  one  for  Miss 
Vincent,"  Mrs.  Gilman  said. 

Mrs.  Lakeman  chattered  her  teeth  till  Mrs.  Gil- 
man had  left  the  room.  "I  can't  open  it,"  she 
said,  and  tried  to  make  her  hand  tremble.  But 
Margaret  had  read  hers  already. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear,"  it  ran,  "  I  am  here  with  Lena. 
Better  go  home. — Tom."  She  stood  rigid  and 
scarcely  able  to  believe  her  eyes.  Was  it  true, 
then? 

"Thank  God!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lakeman,  hold- 
ing out  her  telegram  to  Margaret.  "We  are  to- 
gether again  and  happy,  darling.  Be  gentle  to  little 
Margaret. — Lena. " 

"Now  do  you  see?"  said  Mrs.  Lakeman,  trium- 
phantly. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Yes,  I  see,"  Margaret  said.  "You  needn't 
have  come/'  she  added,  with  white  lips  that  almost 
refused  to  move. 

"I  came  partly  out  of  love  for  you,"  Mrs.  Lake- 
man  began,  and  then  seeing  how  ill  this  chimed 
in  with  her  previous  remarks,  she  added,  lamely, 
"I  couldn't  let  my  child  die,  could  I?" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  Margaret  was 
in  despair. 

"Will  you  go  to  Paris  for  a  time  as  my  guest. 
You  might  start  to-night.  A  former  maid  of  mine 
could  go  with  you.  It  would  do  you  a  world  of 
good.  It  would  be  better  to  go  away  for  a  time, 
dear." 

"I  won't,"  Margaret  answered,  quite  simply 
and  doggedly.  "If  Tom  loves  Lena  better  than 
he  does  me  let  him  go  to  her,  but  I  shall  stay 
here." 

Then  Mrs.  Lakeman  had  an  inspiration,  and, 
as  usual,  she  was  practical. 

"Go  out  to  your  father,"  she  said,  "in  Aus- 
tralia. A  cousin  of  mine  is  a  director  of  one  of 
the  largest  lines  of  steamers;  I'll  make  him  put  a 
state-room  at  your  disposal.  You'll  come  back 
in  a  vastly  different  position  from  your  present 
one.  Cyril  can't  live  many  months — I  shouldn't  be 
surprised  if  he's  dead  already — and  you,  of  course, 
will  be  the  daughter  of  Lord  Eastleigh."  She 
stopped,  for  Mrs.  Gilman  entered  again  with  a 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

cablegram.  Perhaps  the  gods  were  listening  and 
thought  the  moment  an  apt  one  for  its  arrival. 

"It  is  from  my  father/'  Margaret  said,  with  a 
quivering  lip.  "We  cabled  to  him  yesterday." 
She  opened  it,  and  the  violent  effort  to  keep  back 
her  tears  brought  the  color  to  her  face.  It  con- 
tained the  one  word — delighted. 

"What  does  he  say?"  Mrs.  Lakeman  asked. 

"It  doesn't  matter;  it  makes  no  difference," 
Margaret  answered,  crushing  it  in  her  hand;  and 
then  she  said,  gently  and  sweetly,  so  that  it  was 
impossible  to  take  offence:  "I  will  give  up  Tom, 
Mrs.  Lakeman,  but  you  must  go  away  now,  for  I 
feel  as  if  I  can't  bear  any  one's  presence.  And  I 
can't  go  away;  you  must  manage  as  you  please, 
but  I  shall  stay  here." 

"  But  there's  something  else  I  want  you  to  do," 
Mrs.  Lakeman  said.  "  I  want  you  to  keep  this  visit 
of  mine  a  secret  from  Tom — for  Lena's  sake." 

"Doesn't  he  know  that  you  have  come?" 

"He  doesn't  dream  it;  and  I'm  going  back  to 
Pitlochry  this  evening." 

"But  I  don't  understand!  Where  is  Tom,  and 
where  does  he  think  you  are?" 

"Tom  is  with  Lena,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  said,  with 
a  confident  smile,  "and  he  doesn't  miss  me;  he  is 
too  happy.  I  couldn't  humiliate  my  child  in  her 
future  husband's  eyes" — Margaret  quailed  at  the 
word — "by  letting  him  know  that  I  had  come  to 
.9  289 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

beg  her  life  of  a  woman  for  whom  he  had  had  a 
passing  infatuation.  Now/'  she  added,  and  her 
manner  showed  her  alertness  for  practical  detail. 
"Why  won't  you  go  to  Australia?" 

"I  don't  wish  to  go,"  Margaret  answered,  posi- 
tively. "I  don't  wish  to  leave  my  mother." 

"Your  dear  mother,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  said,  with 
a  funny  little  twitch.  "  Go  home  to  her,  Margaret ; 
let  me  drive  you  to  the  station  and  know  that  you 
are  on  your  way  back  to  the  farm?" 

"I  can't  go  home  now,"  Margaret  answered. 
"I  will  do  as  you  wish  about  Tom,  and  I  will  not 
tell  him  that  you  came  to  me ;  but  you  must  leave 
the  rest  in  my  hands." 

"But  how  is  he  to  know?"  said  Mrs.  Lakeman, 
feeling  in  a  moment  that  her  house  of  cards  might 
fall.  "How  is  he  to  know  that  you  give  him  up?" 

"I  will  write  to  him,"  she  said,  bitterly. 

"You  had  better  telegraph  at  once." 

Margaret  felt  as  if  these  telegrams  were  becoming 
a  nightmare;  but,  at  any  cost,  she  must  get  rid  of 
Mrs.  Lakeman. 

"Oh  yes;  I  will  telegraph  if  you  like."  She 
crossed  over  to  the  table  at  which  Tom  had  sat  so 
joyfully  only  yesterday. 

"Tell  him  you  are  going  away,"  Mrs.  Lakeman 
said.  "Oh,  Margaret,  you  don't  know  how  they 
have  loved  each  other  all  these  years." 

"  You  said  he'd  been  infatuated  so  often?" 
290 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

"He  has  always  laughed  at  it  afterwards." 

Margaret  took  up  her  pen  and  wrote :  "  Stay 
with  Lena ;  I  do  not  want  you.  I  am  going  away. 
— Margaret." 

"You  had  better  put  your  surname,  too/'  Mrs. 
Lakeman  said,  and  she  wrote  it.  "I'll  take  it  for 
you,  dear,"  she  said;  "you  don't  want  to  go  out 
just  yet,  and  you  don't  want  the  landlady  to  see 
it.  Now,  tell  me  what  you  mean  to  do?"  she 
asked,  in  a  good,  businesslike  tone. 

"I  don't  know,"  Margaret  answered,  gently. 
"  I  want  to  be  alone  and  think.  I  have  done  all  I 
could ;  it  has  been  very  hard  to  do,  and  I  hope  Lena 
will  be  happy.  Please  go;  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't 
bear  it  any  longer,  unless  I  am  alone." 

Mrs.  Lakeman  took  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed 
her,  and,  though  Margaret  submitted,  she  could 
not  help  shuddering. 

"It's  rather  a  desperate  game,"  Mrs.  Lakeman 
thought,  as  she  drove  away;  "but  it's  thoroughly 
amusing.  The  best  way  will  be  to  insist  on  Tom 
marrying  Lena  at  once — a  special  license.  A  man 
is  often  caught  in  a  rebound." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XXIX 

MARGARET  sometimes  wondered  how  she  lived 
through  that  day.  Mr.  Farley  sent  her  a  little 
note  releasing  her  from  her  engagement,  but  say- 
ing that  if  at  any  time  she  wanted  to  come  back 
he  would  gladly  take  her  on  again.  Margaret 
felt  it  to  be  a  kindly  letter.  Oddly  enough,  too,  a 
note  came  from  the  agency  in  the  Strand,  asking 
her  to  call  the  next  day.  "I  will/'  she  thought, 
"if  I  have  had  a  letter  from  my  mother."  At  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  there  was  some  uneasiness, 
and  once  or  twice  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  would 
go  back  to  Chidhurst  and  ask  a  neighbor  to  take 
her  in,  but  the  inhabitants  of  Woodside  Farm 
had  always  kept  their  affairs  to  themselves,  and 
she  did  not  want  to  give  occasion  for  gossip  in  the 
village.  She  read  her  mother's  letter  again.  No, 
there  was  nothing  in  it  to  be  alarmed  about ;  it  was 
only  her  own  miserable  state  of  mind.  She  was 
desperate,  maddened,  ashamed  every  time  she  re- 
membered Tom  and  his  kisses,  and  her  own  prot- 
estations to  him.  She  couldn't  bear  to  think  that 
he  was  with  Lena — Lena  who  would  never  love 
him  as  she  did.  Somehow,  too,  at  the  bottom  of 
292 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

her  heart,  she  felt  that  there  was  trickery  in  the 
whole  business.  She  didn't  know  how  or  where, 
only  that  Mrs.  Lakeman's  manner  had  not  been 
very  real ;  but  everything  in  the  world  had  become 
unreal  and  torturing.  There  was  only  one  thing 
left  that  could  comfort  her — home  and  mother. 
She  hungered  and  thirsted  for  her  home.  She 
wanted  to  see  her  mother's  face,  to  sit  on  the  arm 
of  her  chair  in  the  living-room,  to  talk  to  her,  even 
to  hear  Hannah  scold.  She  wanted  to  go  up  to  the 
wood  and  to  think  out  the  nightmare  of  the  last 
few  hours  in  her  cathedral.  She  imagined  the 
great  rest  of  arriving  at  Haslemere  Station,  of 
walking  the  long  six  miles  to  Woodside  Farm,  of 
entering  the  porch  and  finding  her  mother  sitting 
there.  Oh!  but  it  was  no  good;  Hannah  would 
not  allow  her  to  enter.  Hannah  was  a  firm  woman 
who  kept  her  word,  and  would  think  that  she  proved 
her  religion  by  being  cruel.  As  the  day  went  on 
and  no  telegram  came  from  Tom,  the  latent  hope 
she  had  unconsciously  cherished  vanished.  It 
was  all  true,  then,  and  he  really  cared  for  Lena. 

"I'm  glad  mother  didn't  know,"  she  thought;  "it 
would  have  made  her  so  unhappy  when  this  end- 
ing came;  and  I  couldn't  have  borne  Hannah's 
gibes."  She  longed  desperately  for  some  one  to 
speak  to,  but  there  was  no  one;  besides,  her  lips 
were  closed ;  she  had  promised  to  be  silent.  Sud- 
denly, she  remembered  Miss  Hunstan;  she  would 
293 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

write  to  her.  But  no,  it  was  impossible ;  she  had  left 
Bayreuth  and  the  new  address  had  not  yet  come. 
"And  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  or  what  to  say  to 
father/'  she  thought.  "Oh,  it's  maddening.  If 
it  were  a  case  of  life  and  death  I  could  bear  it,  but 
this  is  some  trick,  I  know  it — it  is  a  case  of  sham 
life  and  death." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Sir  George  Stringer  called. 
He  entered  awkwardly,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  meet- 
ing her ;  but  the  moment  he  saw  her  face  he  knew 
that  something  was  the  matter,  and  all  his  self- 
consciousness  vanished. 

"  I  told  you  I  should  come  again,"  he  said ;  "  there 
is  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  look  after  my  old 
friend's  girl,  is  there?" 

"No,  none,"  she  answered,  hardly  able  to  col- 
lect her  senses  sufficiently  to  talk  to  him. 

He  looked  at  her  sharply.  "Something's  the 
matter,"  he  said;  "you  have  been  crying?" 

"Oh  no  —  yes,  I  have  been  crying;  I  am  very 
homesick. "  He  put  his  hand  on  hers  as  her  father 
might  have  done. 

"Take  my  advice  and  go  home,  my  dear,"  he 
said.  "Is  the  stage  fever  over?" 

"Yes ;  I  suppose  that's  over." 
^  He  looked  at  her  again,  then  suddenly  he  asked : 
"  Has  Tom  Carringford  been  playing  fast  and  loose 
with  you?" 

"Don't  ask  me  any  questions,  dear  Sir  George; 
294 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

I  don't  want  to  say  anything  at  all.  He  is  in  Scot- 
land with  Lena  Lakeman." 

"He  is  a  fool/'  he  said,  with  conviction. 

"So  am  I,"  she  answered,  ruefully. 

"And  I'm  another.  My  dear,  I'm  not  going  to 
ask  you  to  tell  me  anything  you  want  to  keep  to 
yourself."  He  stopped  for  a  moment,  then  he 
asked,  awkwardly,  "I  suppose  what  I  asked  you 
the  other  day  is  impossible?"  For  answer  she 
only  nodded,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Then 
we  won't  say  anything  more  about  it."  He  took 
her  hands  and  held  them  tightly  in  his  own.  "  But 
I  should  like  to  be  your  friend — your  father,  if  you 
like,  till  your  own  returns.  If  you  can't  go  home 
to  your  mother,  or  if  that  young  bounder  at  Guild- 
ford  worries,  or  if  there  is  any  reason  of  that  sort, 
why  shouldn't  you  go  to  my  house  by  the  church 
and  shut  yourself  up  there?  You  would  be  very 
comfortable.  I  thought  of  going  there  myself,  but 
I  could  easily  go  somewhere  else." 

It  seemed  a  good  idea  at  first,  and  she  caught  at 
it,  then  she  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said;  "people  would  know  and  they 
would  talk." 

"I  suppose  they  would — damn  them.  I  wish 
you'd  tell  me  what  Master  Tom  has  been  up  to, 
dear." 

"I  can't  talk  about  him  to-day,  Sir  George;  I 
can't  talk  about  anything — my  head  is  so  bad.  I 
295 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

wish  you  would  go  now/'  she  said,  but  so  very 
gently  it  was  impossible  that  he  could  be  hurt, 
"and  come  and  see  me  to-morrow;  my  mother  is 
not  well  and  I  am  worried.  To-morrow  I  shall 
have  thought  out  plans  and  will  gladly  talk  them 
over  with  you.  I  want  some  one's  help  and  ad- 
vice." 

"I  think  you  do,"  he  answered,  "and  I'll  come 
to-morrow,  my  dear." 

Margaret  sat  and  thought  again  when  she  was 
alone;  she  had  thought  and  thought  since  Mrs. 
Lakeman  had  gone  that  morning  till  her  head  was 
dazed,  but  it  was  no  good ;  the  whole  thing  was  a 
cul-de-sac.  Then  an  inspiration  seized  her.  "  I'll 
write  to  Hannah,"  she  said,  "and  beg  her  to  let 
me  go  home  and  see  my  mother  for  a  little  while,  at 
any  rate.  She'll  get  the  letter  in  the  morning,  and 
I'll  ask  her  to  telegraph  if  I  may  go."  She  sat 
down  at  once  and  told  Hannah,  with  all  the  vehe- 
mence in  her  heart,  that  she  had  never  cared  for 
Mr.  Garratt ;  that  perhaps  she  had  even  cared  for 
somebody  else ;  that  she  had  given  up  her  engage- 
ment at  Mr.  Farley's  theatre;  that  she  was  miser- 
able about  her  mother,  and  wanted  to  come  and 
see  her;  would  Hannah  telegraph  in  the  morning 
if  she  might  come  at  once,  even  for  a  few  hours. 
She  felt  better  when  she  had  written  it,  and  deter- 
mined to  go  out  and  post  it  herself.  She  was  just 
starting  when  Dawson  Farley  appeared .  His  heart 
296 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

had  smote  him  for  his  share  in  the  morning's  trans- 
actions. 

"  I  thought  I  would  come  round  and  tell  you  how 
sorry  I  am  at  your  resignation/'  he  said. 

"And  it  was  so  unnecessary,  after  all,  for  my 
sudden  engagement  to  Mr.  Carringford  is  broken 
off." 

"I  know." 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  asked,  astonished. 

"Mrs.  Lakeman  came  to  see  me  and  told  me." 

"Oh  yes, Mrs.  Lakeman,"  she  answered,  bitterly. 
"Is  Lena  really  dangerously  ill?"  She  wondered 
at  her  own  question,  but  some  other  self  had  asked 
it — a  self  that  doubted  everything. 

Mr.  Farley,  too,  was  taken  by  surprise.  "  I  sup- 
pose so,"  he  said,  with  a  little  smile.  "Mrs.  Lake- 
man's  facts  are  sometimes  a  little  elusive;  but 
she  can  hardly  have  invented  that  one.  Carring- 
ford has  always  been  by  way  of — I  mean  he  has 
always  been  considered  Lena  Lakeman's  proper- 
ty." Quite  suddenly  Margaret  lost  her  self-con- 
trol for  a  moment,  and  shudderingly  put  her  hands 
over  her  face. 

"I'm  sorry  if  she's  ill,  but  I  do  dislike  her  so," 
she  said. 

Mr.  Farley,  too,  was  off  his  guard.  "  I  hate  her," 
he  said,  quickly.  "  Tell  me,  frankly,  what  you 
think  about  it?" 

But  Margaret  shook  her  head  impatiently.  "I 
297 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

oughtn't  to  have  said  that;  and  I  can't  talk  about 
it,  Mr.  Farley.  I'm  sure  you  will  understand  that 
the  whole  thing  is  painful,  and  not  one  that  I  can 
discuss." 

"At  any  rate,  I  may  congratulate  you  on  your 
father's  probable  return?" 

"Oh,  he  will  not  be  here  for  a  long  time." 

"But  you  know  that  his  brother  is  dead?" 

She  started  to  her  feet.  "  When  did  he  die ;  how 
did  you  know?" 

"He  died  yesterday  after  an  operation  at  Mel- 
bourne. I  have  just  seen  it  in  an  evening  paper," 
Mr.  Farley  answered. 

"Oh,  my  dear  mother,  she  will  get  my  father 
back,"  burst  from  Margaret's  lips.  "She  is  ill, 
but  this  news  will  make  her  better.  I  have  been 
writing  to  my  half-sister" — and  she  took  up  the 
letter — "  I  will  open  it  and  tell  her,  for  she  may  not 
know."  Without  knowing  it,  she  showed  her  im- 
patience to  be  alone,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Dawson 
Farley  discreetly  took  his  leave. 

"I'm  not  going  on  with  it,"  he  thought,  as  he 
walked  back  to  Victoria  Street.  "That  girl  is  a 
sweet  woman,  dignified  and  courageous,  and  I 
can't  be  turned  into  a  common  scoundrel  to  please 
Mrs.  Lakeman.  " 


MARGARET    YINCENT 


XXX 

IT  was  past  seven  when  Margaret  came  in  from 
posting  her  letter ;  she  had  walked  on  almost  un- 
consciously for  an  hour  or  two  —  into  the  city, 
deserted  after  the  business  of  the  day,  and  back 
by  the  Embankment,  to  avoid  the  traffic  near  the 
theatres. 

The  last  few  hours  had  been  so  full  of  events 
they  had  changed  the  whole  current  of  her  life; 
but  as  yet  she  was  hardly  able  to  take  in  all  the 
meanings  attached  to  them.  She  was  like  a  wom- 
an in  a  dream  struggling  to  awake;  it  seemed  as 
if  everything  that  had  happened  concerned  some 
one  else  rather  than  herself.  Oh,  if  she  could  feel 
more  acutely — she  even  longed  for  pain,  for  any- 
thing that  would  make  her  realize  that  she  was 
still  alive. 

Mrs.  Oilman  let  her  in,  evidently  full  of  pleas- 
ant excitement.  "Miss  Hunstan  is  coming  back," 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  have  just  had  a  letter,  and  knew 
you  would  like  to  be  told.  She  expects  to  be  here 
in  a  day  or  two.  She  will  be  pleased  about  you 
and  Mr.  Carringford." 

Margaret  stopped,  dumfounded ;  but  Mrs.  Oilman 
299 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

would  have  to  know.  She  thought  it  would  be 
better  to  get  it  over.  "But  perhaps  we  are  not 
going  to  be  married,  after  all — Mr.  Carringford  and 
I,"  she  said,  lamely.  "We  made  up  our  minds 
too  quickly." 

"Oh  no,  miss,  I  couldn't  think  that;  and,  if  I 
know  anything  about  it,  he  loves  the  ground  you 
walk  on.  There  was  a  glow  in  his  face  whenever 
I  let  him  in,  or  whenever  he  was  with  you,  that 
did  one  good  to  see." 

But  Margaret  was  on  her  way  up -stairs  and 
answered  nothing. 

Mrs.  Oilman  called  after  her:  "Oh,  Miss  Vin- 
cent, I  forgot  to  say  there's  a  letter  for  you — you'll 
find  it  on  the  drawing-room  table." 

A  letter!  She  went  almost  headlong  into  the 
room,  while  her  heart  beat  quickly  with  hope  and 
wonder. 

The  letter  had  the  Chidhurst  postmark;  it  was 
directed  in  an  uneducated  hand,  and  inside  there 
was  written,  almost  illegibly: 

"  I  think  mother  is  very  ill,  but  Hannah  will  not  have 
it.  Do  not  say  I  wrote.  Better  come  at  once.  From 

"  TOWSEY." 

A  cry  escaped  from  Margaret's  lips;  pain  had 
come  to  her  now  acutely  enough. 

"Oh,  mother,  mother,  if  you  should  die!  How 
could  I  think  of  anything  else  in  the  world  when 
300 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

you  were  ill;  but  I  didn't  know,  darling,  I  never 
dreamed  it." 

In  ten  minutes  she  was  on  her  way  to  Waterloo. 
The  hansom  went  so  slowly  she  beat  the  doors 
with  her  fists  in  her  impatience.  All  thought  of 
Tom  had  vanished  or  been  pushed  into  the  back- 
ground of  her  life;  the  older  love  asserted  itself, 
and  every  thought  was  concentrated  on  the  dear 
life  at  Chidhurst.  She  had  just  time  to  catch  the 
train — it  went  at  7.45.  It  wanted  two  minutes  to  the 
quarter  when  she  reached  the  station.  She  flew  out 
of  the  cab  almost  before  it  had  stopped,  handed  the 
fare  to  the  man,  and  hurried  to  the  booking-office. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  clerk  gave  her  a  ticket  with  de- 
liberate slowness  ;  she  snatched  it,  and  ran  to  the 
platform.  The  doors  were  being  closed ;  she  had 
just  time  to  enter  an  empty  carriage  before  the 
train  started.  Thank  Heaven,  she  was  alone. 
She  could  walk  up  and  down  and  wring  her  hands 
or  throw  herself  upon  the  seat,  or  lean  her  head 
against  the  side  of  the  carriage  and  pray — to  any 
power  that  existed  and  was  merciful.  "Let  her 
live— let  her  live!  She  mustn't  die  while  father 
is  away;  it  would  be  so  cruel.  Mother — mother, 
darling,  you  mustn't  die.  Father  is  on  his  way 
back,  and  I  am  coming  to  you ;  don't  you  feel  that 
I  am  coming?" 

Oh,  the  misery  of  it,  and  the  slow,  slow  plodding 
of  a  train  that  goes  towards  a  house  over  which 
301 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

death  hovers.  It  seemed  to  Margaret  as  if  it  were 
hours  before  she  even  reached  Woking ;  but  it  was 
something  to  be  in  the  dear  Surrey  country  once 
again.  The  door  opened  when  the  train  stopped 
and  two  people  got  in ;  they  looked  like  man  and 
wife.  Margaret  locked  her  hands  and  clinched 
her  teeth,  as  she  had  done  in  the  morning  in  order 
to  bear  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Lakeman,  and  pres- 
ently in  her  dim  corner  she  shut  her  eyes  and  pre- 
tended to  sleep,  though  every  sense  was  throbbing 
with  impatience.  She  heard  the  woman  say  to 
the  man — and  it  made  her  start,  for  Annie  was 
her  mother's  name,  though  they,  of  course,  had 
nothing  to  do  with  her : 

"I  think  Annie's  growing  taller;  don't  you?" 

"I  dare  say/'  the  man  answered;  "she's  a  girl 
I  never  cared  for  myself."  He  stopped  a  moment 
as  if  considering.  "Do  you  think  Tom  means 
anything  by  it?" 

Tom,  too!     Margaret  thought. 

"Well,  they  seem  to  think  he's  looking  after 
Mabel  Margetson,"  the  woman  answered. 

"  There 'd  be  some  money  there,"  the  man  said. 

"A  good  bit,  no  doubt,"  the  woman  answered; 
"but  money  isn't  everything."  «*  . 

No,  money  isn't  everything,  Margaret's  heart 
answered  them.  Money  is  nothing,  after  a  cer- 
tain point;  nothing  is  anything  except  the  love  of 
your  dearest,  the  sound  of  a  living  voice,  the  sight 
302 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

of  a  dear  face,  the  touch  of  a  thin,  gaunt  cheek 
against  your  own.  "Oh,  she  must  live,"  she 
cried  dumbly  to  herself,  though  never  a  sign  or 
movement  betrayed  it.  "I  wish  I  could  send  my 
own  life  into  your  heart,  darling;  but  live — live 
till  father  comes.  Oh,  dear  Christ,  if  You  can  see 
into  out  hearts,  as  people  say,  let  my  mother  live, 
or,  if  she  must  die  soon,  still  let  her  live  till  my  fa- 
ther comes— or  till  I  get  to  her,"  she  added,  in  de- 
spair, for  in  her  heart  she  felt  as  if  the  rest  must 
be  denied.  "  We  love  her,  love  her  best  on  earth,  as 
she  does  us. " 

"Why,  it's  Guildford  already,"  the  woman  said. 
"I  declare,  this  train  is  in  a  hurry."  She  reached 
down  the  basket  that  was  in  the  rack,  the  man  rose, 
they  opened  the  carriage  door,  and  again  Margaret 
was  left  alone. 

The  oil  in  the  lamp  burned  low  and  nickered; 
she  opened  the  window  at  the  other  end — they 
were  both  open— and  the  soft  darkness  of  the  sum- 
mer night  came  in.  She  knelt  by  the  carriage 
door,  and  rested  her  arms  on  the  window-frame 
and  her  face  down  on  them;  it  gave  her  a  devo- 
tional feeling ;  it  made  her  love  the  land  and  trees 
and  the  great  sky  above  them;  they  had  always 
seemed  to  understand  everything;  she  felt  as  if 
they  did  now.  The  scent  of '  the  pines  came  to 
her;  she  could  see  the  fir-trees  black  and  dim  as 
the  train  rushed  past;  but  all  nature  seemed  to 
303 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

know  the  misery  in  her  heart — it  soothed  her  and 
made  her  able  to  bear  it  calmly.  She  looked  up 
at  the  little  stars  that  had  been  there  thousands  of 
years  before  she  was  born,  and  would  be  there  thou- 
sands of  years  to  come — at  the  stars  and  the  black 
trees  that  made  the  shadows,  at  the  woods  in  which 
she  had  never  trodden  and  yet  knew  so  well,  at 
the  deep  gray  sky,  the  rough  fence  that  bounded 
the  railway  line — and  everything  seemed  to  know 
as  she  passed  by  that  she  was  going  to  her  mother, 
only  to  find  that  nothing,  nothing  in  this  wide 
world,  can  alter  the  inexorable  law  of  nature  and 
the  great  decree  when  it  has  once  been  given. 

There  were  three  little  stations  to  pass  before 
she  reached  Haslemere.  The  station-master's  gar- 
dens were  bright  with  flowers ;  she  could  see  plainly 
the  patches  of  color  in  the  darkness,  and  the  scent 
of  late  sweet-peas  was  wafted  to  her.  She  could 
see  the  cottages  of  Surrey  as  the  train  went  on, 
here  and  there  a  light  shone  from  an  upper  win- 
dow— lattice  windows  generally,  like  her  mother's. 
Behind  them  people  were  going  to  bed ;  they  were 
not  ill,  not  dying,  as  perhaps  her  mother  was,  in 
the  big  bed  at  Woodside  Farm.  A  brook,  some 
trees,  a  house  built  up  high  on  the  bank  a  little 
way  back  from  the  road,  the  slackening  of  the 
train — and  Haslemere  at  last.  The  train  seemed 
to  hurry  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  platform  on 
purpose,  and  she  was  impatient  at  every  yard 
304 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

she  had  to  tread.  She  gave  up  her  ticket  and 
passed  through  the  narrow  doorway  of  the  sta- 
tion -  house  and  out  again  on  the  other  side.  It 
was  ten  o'clock — late  hours  for  the  country-side. 
The  inn  on  the  high  bank  opposite  was  closed. 

"Is  it  too  late  for  a  fly?"  she  asked  the  porter. 

"Too  late  to-night,  miss,  unless  it's  ordered  be- 
forehand/' and  he  turned  out  an  extra  gas-light. 
Almost  before  the  words  were  said  she  had  darted 
forward;  she  was  young  and  strong,  and  her  feet 
were  swift.  She  hurried  up  the  hill  on  the  right, 
past  the  inn  at  the  top — she  could  see  the  white 
post  and  the  little  dark  patch  above  that  consti- 
tuted the  sign.  On  and  on  past  the  smithy  and 
the  wheelwright's,  and  the  little  cottages  with 
thatched  roofs  and  white  fenced-in  gardens.  She 
could  have  walked  a  hundred  miles — flung  them 
behind  her  with  disdain.  It  was  the  time,  it  was 
the  time!  Life  hurried  away  so  at  the  last;  it 
might  not  stay  even  for  her  longing  or  her  pray- 
ing. She  turned  off  from  the  main  road,  over  a 
bridge  on  the  right  —  a  narrow  road  just  wide 
enough  for  two  carriages  to  pass — the  oaks  and 
plane-trees  leaned  out  above  the  hedges,  she  could 
see  the  trailing  outline,  against  the  sky,  of  a  little 
clump  of  larches — a  deep  blue  sky  now  in  which 
the  stars  had  gathered  closer. 

Nearly  three  miles  were  behind  her.  She  was 
near  the  outbuildings  of  a  farm  that  was  half- 
305 


MARGARET    YINCENT 

way  to  Chidhurst;  she  smelt  the  newly  garnered 
grain  in  them  as  she  passed.  Another  quarter 
of  a  mile  and  she  had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  moor. 
Along  the  white  road  beside  it — the  road  she  had 
driven  with  her  father  the  day  she  returned  from 
London,  and  that  Mr.  Garratt  had  trotted  along 
so  often  with  his  fat,  gray  pony  or  on  his  mare, 
pleased  and  jaunty,  with  his  hunting-crop  in  his 
right  hand.  The  bell  heather  was  dead,  the  gorse 
was  turning  brown,  she  knew  that  there  must  be 
patches  of  ling,  but  it  was  too  dark  to  see  them. 

On  she  hurried,  the  white  road  was  stretching 
behind  her  instead  of  in  front.  Another  quarter 
of  a  mile  and  she  had  come  to  Chidhurst  village; 
it  was  still  and  sleeping.  How  strange  it  seemed 
to  skurry  through  it  at  this  hour!  A  few  minutes 
more  and  the  square  tower  of  the  church  stood  out 
before  her.  The  darkness  had  lifted  so  well  that 
she  could  see  the  clock;  it  had  stopped,  of  course — 
at  a  quarter-past  three;  a  lump  came  to  her  throat 
and  her  heart  stood  still,  for  low  on  the  ground 
beneath  the  church  tower  she  saw  the  whiteness 
of  the  tombstones  round  the  church.  She  turned 
her  head  quickly  away;  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road  were  the  gates  of  Sir  George  Stringer's  house 
— the  sight  of  them  gave  her  comfort — and  on  her 
right,  at  last,  was  the  little  gate  that  led  into  the 
fields  that  made  the  short  cut  to  the  farm.  She 
gave  a  cry  of  thankfulness  as  she  went  through 
306 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

it,  and  stood  on  her  mother's  land  once  more.  It 
was  only  a  month  since  she  had  slept  on  the  green 
ground  beneath  her  feet,  and  kissed  it  and  wondered 
when  she  would  walk  over  it  again.  She  had  not 
thought  it  would  be  so  soon.  Across  the  field  by 
one  of  the  pathways  that  made  a  white  line  leading 
to  the  stile,  over  the  stile  and  into  the  second  field, 
and  she  ran  now,  for  she  knew  that  in  a  moment 
she  would  see  the  house. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XXXI 

MARGARET  stood  in  sight  of  her  mother's  win- 
dow and  could  have  cried  with  joy,  for  there  was  a 
light  in  it.  She  lifted  up  her  heart  in  thankful- 
ness, feeling  as  if  Heaven  had  heard  her.  Then 
another  fear  presented  itself,  one  that  had  been 
haunting  her  all  through  the  journey,  but  that  in 
the  overwhelming  dread  of  not  finding  her  mother 
alive  she  had  not  stayed  to  consider — Hannah. 
What  would  Hannah  do?  Would  she  refuse  to  let 
her  enter  the  house  while  her  mother  was  ill — per- 
haps dying?  The  letter  which  she  had  written 
was  still  in  the  post;  it  would  not  arrive  till  the 
morning;  there  was  not  yet  the fc chance  of  that 
softening  her.  She  had  no  right  to  keep  Mar- 
garet out;  but  it  was  no  good  considering  any 
question  of  right  now;  she  dreaded  high  words 
and  Hannah's  rasping  voice.  Her  feet  nagged 
as  she  went  down  the  green  path  of  the  Dutch 
garden;  she  stood  irresolute  at  the  bottom  of  it, 
looking  up  at  the  dimly  lighted  window,  wonder- 
ing what  to  do.  The  front  door  was  certain  to 
be  bolted  at  this  time  of  night,  and  probably  every 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

one  was  up-stairs,  so  that  no  one  would  hear  her 
if  she  tapped,  and  she  was  afraid  to  ring  lest  she 
should  disturb  her  mother.  She  went  softly  past 
the  house,  beside  the  flower-bed  against  the  wall, 
and  beneath  her  own  bedroom  window,  round  to  the 
back  door  by  which  she  had  left  the  house  a  month 
ago,  and  cautiously  tried  the  latch,  but  it  was  fast- 
ened on  the  inside,  as  she  knew  it  would  be.  Then 
suddenly  a  light  came  from  the  kitchen  window ; 
evidently  some  one  had  entered  with  a  candle; 
perhaps  Towsey  had  come  down,  or  Hannah — 
she  was  afraid  to  knock  lest  it  should  be  Hannah. 
A  thick  muslin  blind  was  drawn  over  the  window, 
which  was  so  high  that  Margaret  was  not  tall 
enough  to  look  in.  She  remembered  the  four-legged 
stool  painted  gray — it  generally  stood  between  the 
wood-house  and  the  back  door ;  the  postman  used 
to  sit  on  it  sometimes  and  talk  to  Towsey  while  he 
rested.  If  she  stood  on  that  she  might  see  into  the 
kitchen.  She  found  it,  and,  still  not  making  a 
sound,  put  it  down  beneath  the  window,  mounted, 
and  looked  in.  Through  the  muslin  curtain  she 
could  see  Towsey  by  the  fireplace;  she  had  put  a 
little  saucepan  on  the  fire,  and  was  beginning  to 
stir  something  that  was  in  it,  and  there  was  no 
one  else  in  the  kitchen.  Margaret  tapped  gently, 
and  Towsey  started  as  if  she  divined  that  it  was 
Margaret ;  she  came  to  the  window  and,  lifting  the 
curtain,  looked  out.  Margaret  put  her  head  close 
309 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

to  the  glass  so  that  in  the  darkness  there  could  be 
no  mistake  of  her  identity. 

Then  Towsey  signed  to  her  to  go  to  the  back 
door,  and  went  and  softly  unbarred  it.  She  only 
opened  it  a  little  way  and  put  out  her  head  as  if 
she  were  afraid  that  even  a  whisper  might  be  heard 
inside  the  house. 

"Miss  Margaret/'  she  said,  "I  knew  you  would 
be  here." 

"Is  she  better?"  Margaret  asked,  breathlessly. 

Towsey  shook  her  head.  "  She's  never  going  to 
be  better,"  she  whispered;  "but  she's  always  been 
a  healthy  woman,  and  it  may  take  a  deal  of  dying 
to  bring  her  to  the  end." 

The  words  smote  Margaret,  and  she  held  on  to 
the  doorway  to  support  herself. 

"Is  Hannah  with  her?"  she  asked. 

"Ay,  she  is  with  her;  you  may  be  sure  of 
that." 

"Has  she  said  nothing  about  me?  Didn't  she 
mean  to  send  for  me?" 

"  Not  a  word.  You  see  it  has  all  been  so  sudden  ; 
she  was  only  took  worse  last  night." 

"Did  she  get  a  telegram  yesterday?" 

"Ay,  late  yesterday  afternoon.  She  said  I 
wasn't  to  say  anything  to  Hannah  about  it;  she 
looked  as  if  she  were  pleased.  Hannah  had  gone 
over  to  Petersfield  for  the  afternoon  when  it  came 
and  didn't  get  back  till  half  an  hour  after." 
310 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"What  is  the  matter  with  mother? — is  it  her 
heart,  or  what?" 

"Yes,  it's  her  heart,  I  expect;  we  sent  Daddy 
for  the  doctor  at  nine  o'clock  last  night,  and  he 
came  again  this  morning.  He  hadn't  been  since 
last  week.  He  said  she  was  better;  but  he  didn't 
seem  to  think  well  of  her." 

"Has  Hannah  said  nothing  about  me?" 

"I  asked  her  if  she'd  wrote  after  he  had  gone, 
but  she  told  me  to  mind  my  work  and  leave  her  to 
mind  other  things." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then  I  just  got  George  Canning  to  write 
those  lines  and  post  them  in  Haslemere  when  he 
went  for  the  physic.  I  thought  if  he  posted  it  be- 
fore twelve  you'd  likely  get  it  to-night." 

"I  did — I  did!"  and  Margaret  put  her  hand  on 
Towsey's  arm  in  token  of  gratitude.  Towsey 
turned  her  head  back  for  a  moment  as  if  she  were 
listening,  but  all  was  still  above. 

"Has  mother  asked  for  me?"  Margaret  whis- 
pered. 

"Ay,  every  hour." 

"I  must  come  in,  I  will  come  in!"  she  said,  des- 
perately. 

"You  have  a  right  to,"  Towsey  answered;  "but 
after  she  came  from  London  she  said  she  would 
turn  me  from  the  door  if  I  ever  opened  it  to  you." 

"I  must  see  my  mother!"  Margaret  said,  and  a 
3« 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

sob  came  to  her  throat.  "  She  has  no  right  to  keep 
me  from  her." 

"That's  true  enough,  Miss  Margaret.  But  she's 
that  bitter  I  believe  she'd  shut  the  door  on  you  if 
your  mother  was  lying  dead." 

"I  would  insist/'  said  Margaret,  in  despair; 
"  but  it  would  be  so  terrible  to  have  a  quarrel  now, 
and  it  might  kill  her.  She's  my  mother,  Tow- 
sey," Margaret  added,  in  a  heart-broken  whisper. 

"And  Hannah  may  say  what  she  pleases,  you 
shall  enter,"  whispered  Towsey  with  determina- 
tion, and  opened  the  door  wide.  Margaret  went 
swiftly  past  her  into  the  kitchen,  and  Towsey  shut 
the  door  softly  and  followed  her.  "  You'll  be  tired 
with  the  journey,"  she  said,  tenderly;  "let  me  get 
you  something  to  eat  and  drink." 

"  I  don't  want  anything  to  eat  or  drink,  Towsey, 
dear;  I  want  to  creep  up  and  be  near  mother  even 
if  I  can't  see  her.  Oh,  I  wonder  if  Hannah  would 
prevent  my  seeing  her?" 

"Ay,  that  she  would,"  said  Towsey,  with  con- 
viction. "You'd  better  sit  a  bit,"  and  she  led 
Margaret  to  a  chair  very  carefully,  so  that  the  sound 
of  their  footsteps  should  not  be  heard  above,  and 
still  they  spoke  in  whispers. 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  Margaret  asked,  chokingly. 

Towsey  shook  her  head.  "Hannah  won't  be- 
lieve she's  going,  but  I  can  see  it.  I  have  seen 
plenty  go,  and  know  the  signs.  The  pain's  gone 
312 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

— it's  never  been  very  bad — but  it's  all  gone  now. 
She's  just  waiting  for  death,  though,  somehow, 
I  don't  think  it  will  come  till  she's  .seen  you." 
"But  doesn't  Hannah  know  she's  dying?" 
Towsey  shook  her  head.     "She  doesn't  see  it, 
and  you  can  never  make  Hannah  believe  anything 
she  doesn't  think  inside  her." 

"Is  Hannah  likely  to  come  down?" 
"  Likely  she'll  be  down  presently  for  the  arrow- 
root. Look  you,  Miss  Margaret,  I'll  make  an  ex- 
cuse and  go  up  for  something.  You  take  off  your 
shoes  and  walk  softly  by  me,  keeping  well  to  the 
side  of  the  staircase.  There's  only  the  little  lamp 
in  the  room,  and  there's  no  light  outside;  she'll 
not  see,  even  if  she  looks  out." 

"But  what  shall  I  do  when  I  get  up?"  Margaret 
asked,  too  dazed  to  think  for  herself.  She  took  off  her 
hat  as  she  spoke  and  put  it  on  the  table.  Towsey 
lifted  it  gently  and  hid  it  in  the  settle  where  she 
kept  her  own  things. 

"As  I  go  into  the  room  you  can  slip  into  the 
cupboard  outside  the  door — you'll  find  it  open — 
and  hide  among  the  things  hanging  up.  I'll  try 
and  get  Hannah  down  and  keep  her  to  eat  a  bit 
of  supper;  then,  perhaps,  you  could  steal  in  and 
look  at  her  for  a  moment  without  any  one  know- 
ing you  are  there." 

"  But  if  it  did  her  harm— if  it  excited  her?" 
"It  won't,"  said  Towsey,  firmly;  "it'll  make  her 
313 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

happy  before  she  goes.  It  would  be  terrible  if  she 
died  without  seeing  you  or  her  husband,  when 
she's  waiting  and  longing  for  you  both  that  badly 
she  can  scarce  breathe." 

"Let  us  go  at  once,"  whispered  Margaret. 

They  crept  out  of  the  kitchen  together,  Mar- 
garet's hand  on  Towsey's  shoulder.  The  tears 
came  into  the  old  woman's  eyes  as  they  crossed 
the  threshold.  "  I  nursed  you  a  lot  of  times  when 
you  were  a  baby,"  she  whispered;  "and  now  you 
are  such  a  beauty — she  said  it,"  and  she  nodded 
upward,  "only  yesterday." 

They  went  along  the  passage  and  stopped  near 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  that  were  between  the  kitchen 
door  and  the  door  of  the  best  parlor.  They  could 
hear  Hannah's  voice.  She  was  sitting  by  her 
mother's  bedside  reading  the  Bible.  Towsey  went 
up  a  few  steps  and  stopped  and  craned  her  neck, 
and  came  back. 

"The  door's  nearly  to,"  she  whispered.  "Han- 
nah won't  see. " 

Margaret  softly  followed  Towsey  up-stairs,  keep- 
ing close  10  the  wall  till  she  reached  the  landing, 
then  she  slipped  into  the  cupboard  that  was  next 
her  mother's  room.  She  remembered  how  she  had 
looked  into  it  the  day  that  Tom  Carringford  came 
to  the  farm  four  months  ago;  her  mother's  long 
cloak  and  best  dress  had  been  hanging  there  then, 
and  they  were  there  now.  Margaret  knew  the 
314 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

feel  of  them  so  well — it  gave  her  a  thrill  to  touch 
them.  It  was  quite  dark  within  the  cupboard ;  even 
if  the  door  were  open  and  Hannah  passed,  she 
would  not  be  likely  to  see  her.  She  was  afraid  to 
move  the  door  lest  it  should  be  noticed,  but  she  hid 
a  little  way  behind  it.  Towsey,  seeing  she  was 
safe,  looked  in  at  Hannah,  who,  perhaps,  made, 
some  sign  to  her,  for  she  went  softly  down  to  the 
kitchen  again.  Then,  as  Margaret  stood  hidden 
and  listening,  out  of  her  mother's  bedroom  door 
there  came  still  the  sound  of  Hannah  reading  of 
love  and  mercy;  but  her  voice  told  that  neither  had 
entered  her  own  heart. 

Presently  Mrs.  Vincent  asked  feebly,  "  Has  any 
one  come,  Hannah?" 

"  Did  she  know?"  Margaret  wondered. 

"The  doctor  said  he  wouldn't  be  here  again  to- 
day— he  thought  you  better  this  morning,"  Han- 
nah answered. 

"  I  feel  sure  I  am  dying,  Hannah.  I  shall  never 
see  him  again." 

"  She  is  thinking  of  my  father,  "Margaret  thought, 
and  could  hardly  keep  herself  from  crying  out. 

"You  don't  know  how  to  do  with  illness,"  Han- 
nah said ;  "  you've  not  had  any  for  so  long.  We 
are  all  in  God's  hands,  remember  that." 

"I  want  you  to  send  for  Margaret — she's  so 
young,"  Mrs.  Vincent  pleaded;  "I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  her  away  from  home. " 
315 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

But  Hannah  answered  firmly:  "She  has  dis- 
graced us,  mother." 

"She  has  done  nothing  wrong/'  Mrs.  Vincent 
answered;  "nothing  could  make  me  believe  that." 

"  She  has  disgraced  us  with  her  play  actors  and 
her  forwardness.  Would  you  have  an  unbeliever 
beside  your  sick-bed?" 

"But  I  want  her/'  Mrs.  Vincent  said.  "I  want 
her  and  her  father/'  she  moaned.  "I  can't  die 
without  seeing  them  again." 

"You  are  making  too  much  of  the  illness/' 
Hannah  answered,  anxiously.  "  People  have  more 
of  it  before  they  die." 

"Tell  Towsey  to  send  for  Margaret/'  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent said,  as  if  her  mind  were  detaching  itself  from 
Hannah's  argument. 

"She  shall  not  cross  the  doorstep/'  Hannah 
said;  "and,  if  you  were  dying, it  would  be  for  your 
salvation's  sake  that  I  would  still  say  it;  for  one 
must  have  fear  of  God  as  well  as  love  of  God.  Let 
us  go  on  with  the  reading,  mother." 

"I  can't  listen ;  I  want  Margaret  and  her  father. 
There  is  the  sea  between  him  and  me,  but  you  can 
send  for  Margaret." 

"You  are  tired  and  had  better  sleep  a  little," 
Hannah  said  for  answer,  and,  for  all  her  firmness, 
her  voice  was  kind  and  even  gentle,  as  though  she 
were  striving  to  save  a  soul  at  bitter  cost  to  her 
own  heart.  No  answer  came  to  her  last  words, 
316 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

and  five  minutes  went  by ;  they  seemed  like  hours 
to  Margaret;  then  Hannah  spoke  again,  and  her 
voice  was  different — there  was  something  like  fear 
in  it. 

"Mother,"  she  asked,  "mother,  why  do  you 
look  round  so;  do  you  see  anything?" 

"I'm  looking  for  Margaret,"  the  faint  voice 
said. 

"You'd  better  try  to  sleep;  you'll  be  stronger  if 
you  sleep  a  little."  But  for  answer  there  was  only 
a  little  moaning  whisper  that  Margaret's  heart 
told  her  was  her  own  name,  and  in  agony  she 
rocked  to  and  fro  and  clung  to  her  mother's  skirt 
hung  against  the  wall,  and  kissed  it,  and  the  tears 
came  into  her  eyes  and  scalded  them. 

"I  will  go  and  get  you  a  cup  of  arrow-root,"  she 
heard  Hannah  say;  "it  is  past  midnight,  and 
time  that  you  had  nourishment."  She  pushed 
back  the  chair  on  which  she  had  been  sitting  and 
came  out  of  the  room  and,  passing  the  door  of  the 
cupboard  in  which  her  sister  was  hiding,  went 
down-stairs.  Then  Margaret  slipped  softly  into  her 
mother's  room  and  knelt  by  the  bedside. 

"Mother! — mother  1"  she  whispered,  and  put 
her  face  down  on  the  thin  hands  and  covered  them 
with  kisses.  "Mother,  darling,  I  am  here— be- 
side you." 

A  look  of  fright  and  joy  came  into  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent's dulling  eyes.  "Margaret?"  she  gasped. 
317 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Thank  God,  I've  seen  you!  Hannah  won't  be- 
lieve that  I  am  dying.  Did  Towsey—" 

"Yes,  darling,  yes,"  Margaret  whispered;  "and 
I  love  you  so — I  love  you  so.  Get  well,  darling; 
father  is  coming  back — he  is  coming  back  imme- 
diately; get  well  for  him,"  she  whispered  between 
the  kisses  she  rained  on  the  thin  face  and  the 
hands  that  had  a  strange  chill  on  them. 

"I  shall  never  see  him,"  Mrs.  Vincent  said; 
"but  tell  him  that  I  thought  of  him  and  of  you 
all  the  time." 

"Oh,  mother— mother— " 

"Bless  you,  dear,  bless  you,"  Mrs.  Vincent 
said.  A  happy  smile  came  for  a  moment  over 
her  face,  though  fear  quenched  it.  "If  Hannah 
finds  you  she  will  drive  you  out.  You  must  go 
— I  couldn't  bear  it,  dear.  I  entreat  you  to  go." 

"I  will  hide,  darling;  Towsey  will  manage  ev- 
erything," Margaret  said. 

"Hannah  is  very  hard,"  the  dying  woman 
whispered,  anxiously;  "but  she  doesn't  mean  it 
— and  she's  been  very  good  to  me — it's  only  be- 
cause she's  strict.  Tell  your  father  he  will  come 
to  me,  and  I'll  be  waiting.  Go,  dear  —  go  —  I 
couldn't  have  died  without  seeing  you."  With 
a  last  effort  Mrs.  Vincent  kissed  her  again,  but 
her  lips  would  hardly  move,  though  a  cry  of  fear 
came  through  them,  for  Hannah  had  quickly 
crossed  the  hall  below  and  begun  to  ascend  the 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

stairs ;  and  Margaret  knew  that  if  she  left  the  room 
she  would  meet  her  on  the  threshold.  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent's eyes  turned  in  terror  towards  the  door  and 
remained  fixed ;  a  strange  expression  came  to  them, 
as  if  she  saw  many  waiting  and  was  satisfied, 
knowing  why  they  had  come. 

In  a  moment  Margaret  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  bed  and  had  hidden  behind  the  screen  that 
was  partly  round  the  top  and  down  one  side  of  it. 
She  could  not  stand  for  trembling;  she  crouched 
down  on  her  knees  and  held  her  breath. 

"Mother,  I  thought  I  heard  you  cry,"  Hannah 
said  as  she  entered,  but  there  came  no  sound  for 
answer.  "Mother/'  she  said  again,  and  waited; 
but  all  was  still.  Then  Hannah  went  to  the  door 
and  called:  "Towsey,  Towsey,  come  here!"  and 
Towsey,  startled  by  her  tone,  came  running  in 
haste,  and  Margaret  knew  that  they  were  standing 
together  at  the  bedside.  The  moments  went  by 
with  a  strange  stillness,  dragging  and  terrible,  as 
though  an  unseen  host  held  on  to  them.  She 
heard  Towsey  whisper,  "  She  is  going  " ;  she  heard 
her  mother's  quick  breathing,  she  heard  her  try 
to  speak,  but  the  words  were  only  half  articulated, 
and  still  she  did  not  dare  to  move. 

Hannah  said:  "Mother,  mother,  Christ  will 
save  you;  pray  to  Him,"  and  her  mother  whis- 
pered once  more : 

"Tell  father  and  Margaret — and  there  will  be 
319 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

James,  too."  Then  the  breathing  grew  quicker, 
and  the  death-rattle  came  in  her  throat,  and  Mar- 
garet put  her  hands  to  her  own  throat  and  covered 
her  mouth,  and  crouched  lower  and  lower  towards 
the  floor,  so  that  she  might  not  cry  out  in  her  agony. 
Then  all  was  still,  and  she  knew  that  her  mother 
had  died. 

"  She  is  better  off ;  God  be  merciful  to  her,  a  sin- 
ner," Hannah  said,  and  sat  down  in  the  arm- 
chair at  the  bedside.  It  seemed  to  Margaret  as 
if  hours  went  by  while  she  cowered  and  rocked 
in  her  hiding-place,  hoping  that  presently  the  dead 
would  be  left  alone  for  a  little,  and  that  then  she 
might  creep  out  and  see  her  mother's  face  once 
more. 

But  this  was  not  to  be,  for  when  Hannah  rose 
she  called  down  the  staircase:  "Towsey,  you  can 
come;  we  must  make  her  ready."  Then  she  came 
back  into  the  room,  and  it  seemed  as  if  some  spirit 
had  whispered  to  her,  for  she  walked  round  the 
bed  and  moved  the  screen  behind  which  Margaret 
was  hidden.  She  started  back  almost  in  horror 
when  she  saw  the  crouching  figure. 

"Margaret!  is  it  you  that  have  dared?" 

Margaret  stood  up  and  faced  her,  and  even  Han- 
nah saw  that  the  young  face  was  drawn  with  mis- 
ery, and  that  her  lips  trembled. 

"It  is  you  that  dared  not  to  send  for  me,"  she 
said,  in  an  agonized  voice. 
320 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Hannah  turned  to  the  bed  and  drew  the  sheet 
over  their  mother's  face. 

"  I  wrote  to  you  this  afternoon,  telling  you  that 
she  was  ill,  though  you  had  no  right  to  be  here." 
So  the  sisters  had  both  written,  and  neither  letter 
had  reached  its  destination  in  time. 

"But  she  was  my  mother,  and  called  for  me," 
Margaret  answered.  "It  was  my  right  as  well 
as  yours  to  be  by  her." 

"You  gave  up  your  right,"  Hannah  said,  dog- 
gedly, "and  the  place  is  mine."  But  she  took 
care  not  to  look  at  Margaret,  and  her  hands  were 
twitching. 

Then  Towsey  came  forward.  "For  shame, 
Hannah  1"  she  said;  "this  is  your  mother's  child 
you're  speaking  to,  and  in  the  presence  of  the 
dead.  You  can't  mean  that  she's  not  to  stay 
here." 

"  Oh,  you  can't  mean  that  I  am  not  to  stay  while 
she  is  here?"  Margaret  said,  passionately,  look- 
ing towards  the  bed.  "I  think  that  the  agony  I 
have  borne  this  last  hour  will  set  me  free  of  hell, 
if  it  is  true.  You  can  think,  if  you  like,  that  God 
has  sent  it  me  for  punishment,  but  we  needn't 
speak  of  these  things,"  she  pleaded;  "I  only  want 
to  stay  in  peace  till  she  has  gone  forever." 

"And  it's  peace  that  God  gives,"  said  Towsey, 
"to  them  that  have  suffered." 

"You  can  stay,"  Hannah  said.  "It's  true 
2.  321 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

that  she  was  the  mother  of  us  both,  and  I'd  rather 
you  had  been  beside  her  when  she  died  than  hid- 
den there."  She  turned  her  head  away  quickly. 
"It's  that  I  can't  forgive,"  she  added,  with  a  break 
in  her  voice. 

"Hannah,"  said  Margaret,  and  went  a  step 
forward,  for  Hannah's  voice  even  more  than  her 
words  overcame  her — "Hannah,  I  was  afraid  you 
wouldn't  let  me  in ;  you  said  I  shouldn't  enter  the 
door." 

"She  wasn't  dying  then,"  said  Hannah,  with 
grim  sadness,  "  and  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  yet  ; 
besides,  one  often  says  things  —  I  even  said  them 
to  her;  but  I  wouldn't  have  had  this  happen  for  all 
I  could  see." 

Margaret  put  her  hand  on  Hannah's  arm,  but 
Hannah  stood  quite  rigid  and  stern,  with  her  face 
turned  towards  the  still  form  that  was  hidden  from 
them. 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XXXII 

THE  dawn  came  soon  in  those  late  August  days, 
but  it  seemed  as  if  the  darkness  would  never  be  at 
an  end  that  night.  Margaret  sat  in  the  living-room 
in  the  big  chair  by  the  fireplace;  it  faced  the  one 
that  had  been  her  mother's,  and  she  looked  at  the 
arm  on  which  she  had  perched  herself  so  often  in 
the  happy  morning  talks  of  old — the  mornings 
that  were  all  at  an  end  for  ever  and  ever.  She 
had  set  the  door  wide  open  and  the  sweet  air  came 
in,  chilly,  and  with  a  strange  sense  of  what  had 
happened. 

Towsey  found  her  presently.  "We  wondered 
where  you'd  got  to,"  she  said. 

"I  went  to  the  garden,  and  through  the  field — 
I  wanted  to  think  for  a  little  while." 

"I  made  the  bed  in  your  room  ready,  but  I  sup- 
pose when  you  looked  in  it  was  still  covered  up, 
and  you  didn't  feel  like  staying  there." 

"I  don't  like  staying  anywhere,"  Margaret  an- 
swered, with  the  restlessness  that  cannot  find  ex- 
pression keen  upon  her. 

"You  had  better  come  into  the  kitchen — there's 
a  cup  of  hot  milk  ready ;  you  must  want  something. 
323 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Hannah's  just  gone  to  lie  down;  she's  been  anx- 
ious and  wondering  what  had  become  of  you;  but 
she  thought  you  had  gone  to  the  wood,  and  it  was 
no  good  looking  for  you." 

They  sat  down  in  the  kitchen  opposite  each  other 
by  the  table,  the  old  woman,  whose  eyes  were 
swollen  with  weeping,  and  the  girl  with  the  scared, 
white  face,  who  had  just  seen  death  for  the  first 
time. 

"I  am  thinking  of  my  father,"  she  said  to  Tow- 
sey;  "he  doesn't  know  yet — probably  he's  griev- 
ing for  Uncle  Cyril,  but  looking  forward  to  com- 
ing back  to  mother.  It  is  so  dreadful  to  think 
that  he'll  never  see  her  more." 

"Life's  a  queer  thing,"  Towsey  answered,  "and 
difficult  to  make  the  best  of,  and  worse  when  one's 
old,  for  then  one  knows;  but  when  one's  young 
one  hopes." 

"There's  nothing  left  to  hope  for." 

"There  is  for  you,  Miss  Margaret.  When  any 
one's  first  gone  one  feels  adrift,  and  doesn't  see 
the  good  of  living  one's  self,  but  when  one's  young 
others  come  along  after  a  bit.  Just  you  go  and 
lie  down,  poor  lamb;  you  look  worn  enough." 

"Is  Hannah  asleep?" 

"Maybe — she's  in  her  room.  She's  been  pretty 
bad,  but  she  doesn't  like  any  one  to  see." 

Margaret  put  down  the  milk  she  could  not  fin- 
ish. "I'll  go  up-stairs,"  she  said.  "Rest  a  bit 
324 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

yourself;  you  look  so  tired,  Tow sey,  dear."  She 
crept  up  again,  past  her  mother's  closed  door,  and 
towards  her  own  room.  Hannah's  door  was  open ; 
she  hesitated,  then  went  softly  towards  it  and 
looked  in. 

Hannah  was  lying  on  the  bed  in  her  clothes, 
asleep,  or  appearing  to  be  asleep.  The  dawn  shed 
a  blue  light  into  the  room.  Margaret,  standing  by 
the  bed,  could  see  that  Hannah  had  been  crying; 
her  face  was  red  and  blotched  with  it.  Her  cheeks 
were  hollow,  her  poor  nose  was  very  pink,  her 
dull,  light  hair  seemed  to  be  more  scanty  than  ever, 
and  she  looked  so  forlorn  and  sad  as  she  lay  there 
that  Margaret  could  hardly  bear  it;  she  realized, 
as  she  watched  her,  how  little  the  world  had  given 
Hannah,  how  little  it  promised  her.  Slipping  off 
her  shoes,  she  lay  down  very  softly  beside  her — 
a  little  lower,  so  that  she  could  nestle  her  head 
on  Hannah's  breast,  and  put  her  arm  round  the 
square,  thin  shoulder.  Hannah  opened  her  eyes 
and  looked  at  Margaret  and  closed  them  again, 
and,  as  if  in  sleep,  drew  closer  to  her  with  weary 
satisfaction,  and  so,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives, 
they  rested  an  hour  together.  But  neither  slept, 
and,  when  it  was  impossible  to  feign  it  longer,  they 
looked  at  each  other,  and  Margaret  knew  that  Han- 
nah was  softened. 

"I  wrote  to  you  yesterday,"  she  began,  a  little 
grimly,  as  if  ashamed  of  being  anything  else. 
325 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"I  didn't  want  Towsey  to  know — I  would  not 
even  let  mother  know — for  I'd  said  you  shouldn't 
come  back  so  often.  I  went  out  and  posted  it  my- 
self. It  will  be  there  this  morning.  I  didn't  think 
the  end  was  coming,  or  I  would  have  sent  before. 
I'm  not  as  hard  as  that." 

"  You  wrote  to  me ! ' '  Margaret  exclaimed.  "  Why, 
Hannah,  I  wrote  to  you  yesterday — yesterday 
afternoon;  our  letters  will  cross  on  the  way,  and 
both  will  arrive  at  the  same  time." 

"  It  must  have  been  the  Lord  drawing  us  to  each 
other." 

"If  it  had  only  been  in  time,"  Margaret  whis- 
pered. 

"I  must  have  seemed  harder  than  I  was,"  Han- 
nah went  on;  "but  I  didn't  forget  that  she  was 
the  mother  of  us  both,  and  I  didn't  think  it  'd  be 
so  soon.  I'll  never  forgive  myself  while  I  live." 

"I  ought  to  have  known  you  were  not  so  hard 
as  you  seemed.  And,  of  course,  you  didn't  know 
what  was  going  to  happen." 

"It  was  the  man  that  came  between,"  said  Han- 
nah, bitterly;  "it's  always  a  man  that  comes  be- 
tween women." 

Then  Margaret  pulled  herself  up  on  the  bed 
and  sat  there  beside  Hannah,  looking  at  her  tor- 
tured face. 

"Mother  is  lying  in  the  next  room/'  she  said, 
"and  can  never  know,  but  for  her  sake  let  us  trv 
326 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

and  make  things  better  between  us.  I  want  you 
to  believe  me,  Hannah,  when  I  say  solemnly  that 
I  never  liked  Mr.  Garratt,  or  wanted  him,  or  could 
help  anything  that  he  did." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Hannah  said.  "He's  a 
base  and  sordid  man,  and  I've  done  with  him  for- 
ever. Here's  been  here  lately,  and  I've  told  him 
so.  He  only  came  after  me  because  his  mother 
had  heard  that  the  farm  would  be  mine.  If  the 
truth's  to  be  told,  I  never  thought  much  of  him, 
and  as  for  taking  a  man,  caring  as  he  does  for  the- 
atres and  races,  for  I've  found  out  that  he  goes  to 
both,  why,  I'd  rather  die.  But  we  needn't  talk 
him  any  more;  he'll  never  come  here  again." 

Then  Margaret  drew  a  little  closer  to  her,  for 
even  through  her  own  sorrow  and  the  horror  of 
the  night  her  heart  was  aching  for  Hannah  and 
clung  to  her. 

"What  have  you  done  about  the  play-acting?" 
Hannah  asked,  after  a  minute  or  two. 

"I  have  given  it  up,"  and  there  was  another 
silence.  Then,  grim  and  forlorn-looking,  and  with 
the  tears  welling  into  her  eyes,  Hannah  spoke  in 
a  low  voice,  as  if  she  had  brought  herself  to  it. 

"Margaret,"  she  said,  "I've  been  very  hard  on 
you,  often  and  often." 

Margaret  bent  her  head  and  kissed  her  sister's 
dress  and  said  nothing,  for  it  was  true  enough, 
though  she  forgave  it. 

327 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"But  I'd  like  you  to  understand  it/'  Hannah 
went  on,  "then  you  won't  think  so  bad  of  me. 
You  see,  father  came  when  I  was  old  enough  to 
know,  and  took  mother  from  me.  I  felt  that  he 
took  her,  and  there  was  the  way  he  thought  about 
religion  and  the  way  that  you  thought." 

"Hannah,"  said  Margaret,  "let  us  speak  of  it 
— it's  better  to  do  so  now  while  death  seems  to  have 
broken  down  the  barriers  between  us.  I  under- 
stand what  you  mean  about  father's  coming,  I 
do,  indeed — I  should  have  felt  it,  too.  But  about 
the  religion — you  think  it  a  crime  that  he  doesn't 
believe  as  you  do,  but  can't  you  see  that  if  God 
has  given  him  intellect  to  think  and  feel,  and  he 
has  used  them  quite  conscientiously,  and  so  come 
to  the  conclusions  that  are  his  now,  he  is  an  honest 
man?  He  proved  his  honesty  by  giving  up  a 
great  deal — all  sorts  of  worldly  advantages,  and 
some  one  he  loved  very  much  before  he  saw  our 
mother,  and,  if  he  came  to  a  wrong  conclusion, 
don't  you  think  that  God — God  whom  you  say  is 
a  God  of  love  and  very  just — will  at  least  honor 
him  for  being  courageous  and  not  making  a  pre- 
tence?" 

"If  one  doesn't  believe  in  the  Lord — "  Hannah 
began. 

"Oh,  but  let  me  speak,"  Margaret  went  on, 
passionately;  "it's  being  honest  that  matters,  and 
doing  right— trying  to  be  all  that  Christ  preached 
328 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

— if  we  are  only  that  we  can  leave  the  rest.  It  is 
not  we  who  doubt  God,  but  you  who  doubt  Him 
when  you  think  He  could  be  hard  and  cruel  to  us. 
There  are  so  many  forms  of  religion  in  the  world 
besides  the  one  that  you  believe  in;  are  all  the 
people  to  be  condemned  who  try  to  do  right  from 
different  points  of  view?  It's  all  a  mystery  and 
beyond  our  comprehension." 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  it  is  you  think?"  said 
Hannah. 

"  I  think  that  one  should  be  thankful  to  the  Un- 
seen Power  that  has  put  all  the  beauty  and  hap- 
piness into  the  world;  that  one  should  try  never 
to  think  unkindly  or  judge  harshly,  and  that 
we  should  help  each  other  all  we  can,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  the  Power  one  doesn't  understand. 
Some  one  wrote  once, '  I  want  to  accept  the  facts  as 
they  are,  however  bitter  or  severe,  to  be  a  lover 
and  a  student,  but  never  a  lawgiver/  which  means 
that  we  should  not  judge  others,  but  only  love 
them  and  help  them  and  do  our  work  as  best  we 
can." 

"I  think  you  mean  well;  but  I  wish  you  felt 
more  about  religion,"  Hannah  said,  a  little  grudg- 
ingly. She  looked  down  at  her  again,  for  Mar- 
garet had  crept  back  into  her  arms.  It  was  a  new 
sensation  to  feel  any  one  there,  and  she  felt  almost 
ashamed  of  the  comfort  it  gave  her.  "I'm  sorry 
if  I  seemed  hard,"  she  said,  gently.  "You  know 
329 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

the  Bartons  were  always  strict.  But  you  won't 
go  away  again?  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  in 
London." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  away  again,"  Margaret 
answered ;  "  I  want  to  stay  here  with  you  and  fa- 
ther; I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  go  anywhere  else 
as  long  as  I  live." 

"There  hasn't  been  anything  wrong?"  Han- 
nah asked,  with  a  note  of  alarm.  "You  haven't 
done  anything  you  shouldn't?" 

"No,  Hannah,  nothing;  but  I  wish  I  had  never 
gone." 

"There's  always  something  to  be  sorry  for;  we 
have  to  bear  it  as  the  penalty  of  our  weakness. 
I'd  give  all  I  had  in  the  world  to  remember  that 
we'd  both  stood  by  mother  at  the  last/'  Hannah 
answered,  with  a  sigh,  and  then  she  said — almost 
tenderly,  "You  had  better  try  and  sleep  a  little; 
you  look  worn  out,  and  there's  father  to  tell  yet. 
It'll  be  bad  for  him;  I  don't  know  how  he'll  take 
it."  She  held  Margaret  closer  in  her  arms  and 
watched  her,  and  gradually,  worn  out  with  the  long 
night  and  weeping  and  excitement,  they  fell  asleep. 

Towsey  came  in  a  couple  of  hours  later  and 
looked  at  them. 

"I  never  thought  to  see  them  like  that  together," 
she  said,  and  went  softly  out  again.     "  I  wish  she 
had  seen  it ;  but  there,  perhaps  she  does — she  may 
be  standing  by  looking  on  for  all  we  know." 
330 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Sir  George  Stringer  went  to  Great  College  Street 
early  that  afternoon ;  the  expression  of  Margaret's 
face  haunted  him,  and  he  could  not  rest  till  he 
had  seen  her  again.  Mrs.  Gilman  had  told  him 
of  Margaret's  sudden  departure  the  night  before 
and  the  reason  of  it. 

"Poor  thing!  poor  thing!"  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  walked  away.  "I  think  I'll  go  to  Chidhurst 
for  the  week-end.  I  might  be  of  some  use  to  her 
— that  young  scoundrel,  Tom,  is  in  Scotland,  and 
she  has  only  the  grim  half-sister  to  look  after 
her." 

He  walked  across  the  fields  in  the  evening  to 
the  farm,  and  stopped,  hesitating  in  the  porch, 
afraid  to  enter  or  to  ring  and  disturb  the  silence 
that  death  consecrates. 

Hannah  saw  him  and  came  forward,  grim  as 
usual,  but  gaunt  and  sad. 

"  Did  you  want  to  see  any  one?"  she  asked. 

"I  heard  that  your  mother  was  dead,"  he  an- 
swered, awkwardly;  "I  came  to  see  if  I  could  be  of 
any  use.  I  have  known  her  husband  all  my  life 
— where  is  Margaret?" 

"She's  lying  down;  she's  made  her  head  bad 
with  fretting." 

"  What  have  you  done  about  her  father?" 

"We  haven't  told  him  yet.  Margaret  says  he's 
coming  back.  It  will  be  bad  for  him  then." 

"  But  he  ought  to  be  told. " 
331 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"We'll  send  a  telegram  to-morrow.  It  11  be 
time  enough;  it's  no  good  hurrying  sorrow  on 
him.  He'll  have  had  a  day  longer  to  think  he'll 
see  her  again." 

Sir  George  looked  at  her  shrewdly.  "A  kind 
woman  at  heart,"  he  thought,  and  then  he  said 
aloud,  "  You  know  that  he  is  Lord  Eastleigh 
now?" 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  I  can't  see  that  it  matters. 
It  won't  make  any  difference  to  the  end." 

"You  are  quite  right";  and  he  shook  her  hand. 
"Give  my  love  to  Margaret,"  he  said,  and  turned 
away.  "It  would  be  a  good  thing,"  he  thought, 
as  he  went  back  across  the  fields  to  his  house,  "  if 
we  all  lived  in  the  country ;  people  get  spoiled  when 
they  congregate  in  cities;  that  woman  looked 
quite  indifferent  to  Vincent's  title.  Upon  my 
soul,  I  liked  her  to-night." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XXXIII 

WHEN  Tom  had  travelled  all  night  and  driven 
five  miles  by  the  edge  of  a  forest  at  the  foot  of  a 
chain  of  hills,  he  found  himself  at  the  place  the 
Lakemans  had  taken  near  Pitlochry.  A  lovely 
house,  with  a  wood  round  it,  and  through  it  a  view 
of  a  glen,  and  a  stream  that  hurried  white  and 
frothing  towards  the  distance.  He  asked  how 
Miss  Lakeman  was  in  a  whisper,  half  expecting 
to  hear  that  she  was  dead. 

"Miss  Lakeman  hasn't  been  very  well,  sir/' 
the  servant  answered,  and  showed  him  into  a 
charming  room  where  there  was  a  divine  view 
from  the  open  windows.  Near  the  farther  win- 
dow there  was  a  breakfast-table  laid  daintily  for 
two,  with  fresh  fruit  and  late  roses  in  a  bowl.  Lena 
was  lying  on  a  sofa  beside  it  in  a  muslin  gown, 
just  as  Mrs.  Lakeman  had  told  Dawson  Farley 
she  would  be.  Her  face  looked  thin  and  pale, 
her  eyes  large  and  restless  ;  she  seemed  weak 
and  worried,  but  there  was  not  a  sign  of  danger- 
ous illness  about  her.  She  tried  to  raise  herself 
as  he  entered,  but  apparently  was  not  able  to 
do  so. 

333 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Tom,  dear/'  she  said,  "I  have  been  waiting 
for  you — I  knew  you  would  come." 

"Of  course/'  he  answered;  "but  what  is  the 
matter?" 

"I  have  been  ill  — very  ill,  but  I'm  better.  I 
shall  be  well,  now  you  have  come." 

"I  thought  you  were  dying/'  he  said,  a  little 
resentfully,  thinking  that  he  had  been  hurried 
away  from  Margaret  for  nothing. 

"I  should  have  died  if  you  hadn't  come,"  she 
answered.  "Sit  down  —  there,"  and  she  signed 
to  a  chair  close  to  the  sofa. 

"Where's  Mrs.  Lakeman?"  he  asked,  looking 
round  uneasily. 

"She  has  one  of  her  bad  attacks  of  neural- 
gia. You  are  glad  to  come  to  us  ? "  She 
turned  up  her  great  eyes  almost  imploringly  at 
him. 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  understand."  He  looked 
out  at  the  glen  beneath  the  windows,  and  followed 
the  course  of  the  stream  with  his  eyes.  "That 
sort  of  telegram  shouldn't  be  sent  without  a  good 
deal  of  reason." 

"But  I  have  been  very  ill,  Tom,  dear;  and  I 
have  wanted  you  so."  She  held  out  her  hands; 
he  looked  at  her  uneasily,  but  he  did  not  take 
them.  Somehow  her  manner  was  different  from 
the  one  to  which  he  was  accustomed,  and  a  mis- 
giving, he  did  not  know  of  what,  rose  in  his  heart. 
334 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"  I  felt  that  no  one  else  could  make  me  well/'  she 
added,  in  a  pathetic  voice. 

"  Good !  We'll  see  what  can  be  done.  Now,  are 
you  going  to  give  me  some  breakfast?" 

"  It  will  be  here  directly.  Tell  me  about  naughty 
little  Margaret.  Is  her  lover  with  her?" 

"Why,  of  course  not;  I  have  just  come  away." 
He  didn't  like  being  called  a  lover.  "She  and  I 
are  engaged  ;  I  telegraphed  yesterday — " 

"Oh,  but  it  was  only  a  little  joke,  Tom,  dear; 
you  wouldn't  be  so  unkind  to  Mr.  Garratt." 

"It's  all  nonsense  about  Mr.  Garratt — "  He 
stopped,  for  the  breakfast  was  brought  in.  "  Look 
here;  I'd  better  pour  out  the  coffee,"  he  said;  and 
when  he  had  done  so,  and  given  her  some  toast 
and  buttered  a  scone  and  helped  himself  to  kidneys 
and  bacon,  he  felt  distinctly  better.  "Now,  then," 
he  said ;  "  it's  all  nonsense  about  Mr.  Garratt,  and 
she  and  I  are  going  to  get  married — soon  as  pos- 
sible." 

"No,  no,  Tom,  dear,  it's  not  nonsense,"  Lena 
said,  with  one  of  her  usual  wriggles.  "She  told 
me  all  about  him,  and  I  saw  them  meet  in  the 
wood,  you  know." 

But  he  refused  even  to  discuss  it. 

"That's  all  nonsense,"  he  repeated,  firmly. 
"What's  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Lakeman?" 

"It's  only  neuralgia,"  Lena  said;  "you  know 
she  has  a  bad,  black  day  now  and  then.  You 
335 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

don't  mind  being  with  me,  Tom,  dear?  We  al- 
ways like  being  together?"  She  was  beginning 
to  feel  that  she  couldn't  hold  him;  that  she  had 
attempted  more  than  she  could  carry  out.  She 
almost  wished  she  had  left  him  to  Margaret;  her 
power  over  him  seemed  gone,  and  she  was  handi- 
capped by  her  mother's  absence. 

With  a  puzzled  air  he  ate  his  breakfast.  "  What 
have  you  done  to  yourself?"  he  asked,  when  he 
had  finished;  "have  you  caught  a  cold,  or  over- 
tired yourself,  or  just  given  in  and  taken  to  a  sofa 
for  no  particular  reason?" 

"I'm  not  strong,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him; 
"and  I  felt  as  if  I  couldn't  bear  the  waiting. 
We  expected  you  every  day;  why  didn't  you 
come  ?" 

"I  was  with  Margaret,"  he  answered,  at  which 
Lena  turned  and  buried  her  face  in  the  cushions 
and  sobbed  softly  to  herself. 

"Oh,  but  I  say,  what  is  the  matter?"  he  asked, 
in  dismay;  "there's  something  behind  all  this; 
tell  me  what  it  means. " 

"  It  means  that  I  am  going  to  die,"  she  said.  "  I 
must  die,  I  can't  live."  She  held  out  her  hands 
to  him  again,  and  almost  against  his  will  he  felt 
himself  going  towards  her  till  he  had  taken  them 
in  his.  "I  want  you,  dear,"  she  said,  and  twined 
her  arms  round  his  neck.  "I  can't  let  you  go  to 
little  Margaret.  She  has  Mr.  Garratt,  remember, 
336 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

and  I  shall  only  live  a  little  while.  You  must  stay 
with  me  till  I  die — you  will,  won't  you?" 

"This  is  all  nonsense,"  he  said  again;  and  in 
a  kindly,  affectionate  manner,  as  a  brother  might 
have  done,  he  gave  her  a  kiss  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  he  didn't  know  what  else  to  do.  "You 
are  ill  and  played  out." 

"Yes,  I'm  ill,"  she  said,  and  wriggled  more 
completely  into  his  arms. 

He  sincerely  wished  she  wouldn't,  but  he  held 
her  for  a  few  minutes  rather  awkwardly  and  then 
laid  her  back  on  the  sofa. 

"Look  here,"  he  .said,  "I  should  like  to  go  and 
unpack  and  all  that,  and  you  ought  to  rest  for  a 
bit." 

Of  all  the  days  that  Tom  had  ever  lived,  that 
was  the  strangest — that  day  alone  with  Lena, 
who  was  ill  and  not  ill;  with  Mrs.  Lakeman  in- 
visible, he  couldn't  tell  why ;  and  with  something 
at  the  back  of — he  couldn't  tell  what.  He  wrote 
out  some  telegrams  before  he  went  up-stairs.  When 
he  came  down  they  had  gone,  and  some  instinct 
told  him  there  was  a  reason  for  their  disappear- 
ance; that  the  answer  that  came  from  Margaret 
later  in  the  day  was  somewhat  juggled,  but  how 
or  why  he  didn't  know.  Lena  wriggled  and  looked 
in  his  face  and  talked  in  low  tones  and  called  him 
"dear,"  but  she  had  always  done  that.  She  did 
it  to  most  people,  and,  though  it  made  him  uncom- 
337 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

fortable,  he  couldn't  bring  himself  to  attach  impor 
tance  to  it ;  he  didn't  even  like  being  puzzled  by  it. 
Perhaps  Mrs.  Lakeman  would  be  down  to-morrow, 
he  thought,  and  then  things  would  explain  them- 
selves. Meanwhile  he  comforted  himself  by  writ- 
ing a  long  letter  to  Margaret,  and  with  hoping  that 
the  morning  would  bring  him  one  from  her,  but 
when  it  came  there  was  not  a  sign.  Then  he  felt 
uneasy,  and  determined  that  unless  there  was  some 
good  reason  to  the  contrary  he  would  go  back  to 
London  that  night. 


MARGARET    YINCENT 


XXXIV 

MRS.  LAKEMAN  appeared  as  naturally  as  pos- 
sible at  the  Pitlochry  breakfast  -  table  the  next 
morning.  She  looked  haggard  and  ill  with  her 
two  nights'  travel;  and  now  that  the  excitement 
of  getting  Tom  away  from  London,  and  of  the  in- 
terview with  Margaret  was  over,  she  asked  herself 
once  or  twice  whether  the  game  had  been  worth 
the  candle.  After  all,  she  thought  Tom  had  only 
three  or  four  thousand  a  year,  and  she  didn't  be- 
lieve he  would  ever  do  much  in  politics.  It  was  the 
dread  of  losing  him  that  had  roused  her,  the  dra- 
matic situation  that  had  interested  her,  but  now 
that  she  had  created  the  situation  she  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  it;  she  was  even  a  trifle  bored. 
But  everything  bored  her.  She  was  a  woman 
of  humor  and  enterprise  rather  than  of  passion 
and  sentiment,  so  that  nothing  kept  a  lasting 
hold  upon  her  when  once  it  had  lost  its  novelty. 
In  some  sort  of  fashion  she  knew  herself  to  be 
a  sham,  always  experimenting  with  effects  and 
make  -  believe  feelings,  but,  try  as  she  would,  she 
could  never  drive  realities  home  into  her  heart. 
In  a  sense  Lena  was  like  her,  always  wanting 
339 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

the  thing  beyond  her  reach,  and  experiencing  a 
curious  sense  of  satiety  as  soon  as  she  possessed 
it.  Even  the  presence  of  Tom  after  the  long  in- 
terviews of  yesterday  had  lost  some  of  its  fasci- 
nation. 

"I  don't  think  I  want  him,"  she  told  her  moth- 
er, "but  I  don't  want  to  let  him  go." 

"  It's  my  opinion  that  I  made  a  fool  of  myself  in 
going  up  to  London,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  said.  Her 
energy  had  flagged,  and  she  wondered  at  her  own 
nerve  in  going  to  Margaret ;  she  scoffed  at  Dawson 
Farley  and  his  proposal  of  marriage ;  she  felt  Tom 
to  be  in  the  way  at  Pitlochry.  There  were  some 
people  staying  at  Kingussie — she  had  heard  of 
them  from  an  acquaintance  she  met  on  the  plat- 
form at  Euston  —  she  wanted  to  get  over  to  Pit- 
lochry. They  were  rich  people  and  full  of  enter- 
prise; a  couple  of  grown-up  sons,  too;  the  elder 
infinitely  better  off  than  Tom  Carringford.  It 
was  quite  possible  that  he  would  fall  in  love  with 
Lena.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  Tom  was  here; 
besides,  she  had  set  herself  a  task  and  had  to  go 
through  with  it.  After  all,  it  might  afford  her 
some  amusement,  and  she  was  always  eager  for 
that;  better  begin  and  get  it  over.  She  took  him 
into  the  garden  after  breakfast  to  a  seat  in  a  se- 
cluded corner  under  a  pear-tree;  the  glen  and  the 
rushing,  gurgling  brook  were  behind  it,  and  made 
an  accompaniment  to  their  interview. 
340 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"Well,  what  about  Margaret  Vincent?"  she 
asked  him. 

"  I  have  had  no  letter  from  her.  I  don't  under- 
stand it." 

"I  didn't  think  there  would  be  one,"  she  an- 
swered, significantly,  and  with  an  insolence  in  her 
manner  that  put  him  on  the  defensive. 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

Mrs.  Lakeman  smiled  and  said  nothing. 

"You  got  my  telegram,"  he  inquired — "telling 
you  we  were  engaged?"  Lena  had  spoken  of  it 
two  or  three  times  yesterday,  but  he  could  hardly 
believe  that  so  important  a  communication  had 
been  received  in  the  cavalier  fashion  in  which  it 
was  apparently  treated. 

"Of  course." 

"I  can't  think  what  your  telegram  meant,"  he 
said.  "Lena  isn't  dangerously  ill,  or  anything 
like  it." 

Then  Mrs.  Lakeman  tried  to  pump  up  a  little 
dramatic  energy.  "Tom  Carringford,"  she  said, 
"do  you  know  that  I  am  the  best  friend  you  ever 
had?" 

"I  know  that  you  have  been  awfully  good  to 
me." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  telegraphed  as  I  did?" 

"I  wish  you  would,  for  I  can't  make  it  out." 

"Dawson  Farley  told  me  about  Margaret  Vin- 
cent— I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  Margaret 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

Vincent  lately,  from  a  good  many  sources.  Tom," 
she  went  on,  in  a  suddenly  tragic  voice,  "  I  loved 
Gerald  Vincent;  I  have  never  really  cared  for  any- 
body else,  but  this  girl  is  different;  she  has  been 
brought  up  by  a  common  mother." 

"She  is  not  at  all  common,"  he  answered,  in- 
dignantly. "I  saw  her — " 

"  And  a  half-sister  who,  twenty  years  ago,  would 
have  been  in  respectable  service  instead  of  wasting 
her  time  at  home,  for  the  mother  looks  after  the 
farm  herself.  Margaret  belongs  to  her  mother's 
people  and  not  to  her  father's ;  you  can  hear  that 
in  her  provincial  accent" — the  accent,  of  course, 
was  invented  on  the  spur  of  the  moment — "and 
she  was  quite  content  to  marry  her  Guildford  grocer, 
or  whatever  he  is,  until  she  became  stage-struck." 

"Look  here,"  said  Tom;  "you  are  a  good  .soul, 
and  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  but  you  mustn't 
talk  to  me  in  this  way,  for  I'm  engaged  to  Mar- 
garet, and  I  mean  to  marry  her." 

"  You'll  pay  dearly  for  it  if  you  do. "  She  stopped 
a  minute,  then  she  lowered  her  voice,  but  she  was 
becoming  excited ;  after  all,  there  was  some  inter- 
est left  in  the  situation,  and  she  offered  up  her 
child's  dignity  to  its  dramatic  possibility.  "  There 
was  something  more  in  the  telegram  than  I  have 
told  you,"  she  said.  "You  are  killing  Lena,  and 
not  behaving  as  an  honorable  gentleman." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  bewildered. 
342 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

but  remembering   uncomfortably  Lena's  manner 
of  yesterday. 

"I  mean/'  said  Mrs.  Lakeman,  indignantly — for 
it  was  a  theory  of  hers  that  a  claim  was  always 
stronger  than  a  plea,  and  gained  more  considera- 
tion— "  that  you  have  no  right  to  marry  Margaret 
Vincent,  or  anybody  else.  I  mean  that  you  have 
made  my  child  love  you,  that  you  are  all  the  world 
to  her,  and  you  made  her  believe  that  she  was  all 
the  world  to  you." 

"We  have  never  been  anything  but  friends!" 
He  was  aghast. 

"Outwardly.  At  heart  you  have  been  lovers, 
and  you  can't  deny  it.  She  has  given  you  the 
one  love  of  her  life,  dear  " — Mrs.  Lakeman  was  be- 
coming sentimental — "and  I  never  dreamed  that 
you  had  not  given  her  yours.  You  can  go  back 
to  Margaret  Vincent,  if  you  like,  but  you  have 
killed  my  child — my  one,  only  child.  You  must 
see  how  ill  she  looks,  how  changed  she  is." 

"But  this  is  ghastly,"  he  said;  "I'm  not  a  bit 
in  love  with  Lena.  I  never  cared  for  any  one  in 
that  way  but  Margaret,  and  I  want  to  marry  her." 

"Go  and  marry  her,"  Mrs.  Lakeman  answered, 
in  a  low  voice;  "Lena  will  not  be  alive  to  see  it. 
Do  you  suppose  that  I  would  give  away  my  own 
child's  secret,  or  bring  myself  to  speak  to  you  as 
I'm  doing  now,  if  it  were  not  a  case  of  life  and 
death?"  She  said  the  last  words  with  a  thrill. 
343 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

He  looked  at  her  in  despair. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

He  turned  away  and  followed  the  course  of  the 
stream  with  his  eyes  as  it  rushed  through  the  glen. 
This  was  very  awkward,  he  thought,  but  for  the 
life  of  him  he  didn't  believe  in  it. 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,"  he  said; 
"but  it's  no  good  not  telling  the  truth  about  a 
thing  of  this  sort — I  couldn't  marry  Lena.  I'm 
very  fond  of  her,  but  she  isn't  the  kind  of  girl  that 
I  could  fall  in  love  with;  she  flops  about  and  you 
never  know  where  you  have  her,  and  as  for  her 
being  desperately  in  love  with  me,  why,  I  don't 
believe  it.  We  should  worry  each  other  to  death 
if  we  were  married ;  besides,  I  mean  to  marry  Mar- 
garet Vincent." 

"If  the  grocer  hasn't  stolen  a  march  on  you." 

"Look  here,"  he  answered,  turning  very  red,  "if 
you  say  that  sort  of  thing  we  shall  quarrel." 

"I  don't  care,"  she  answered,  defiantly;  "if  you 
can't  behave  like  a  gentleman,  it  doesn't  matter 
whether  we  quarrel  or  not." 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "I  don't  believe  in  this 
business — I  mean  in  Lena's  being  in  love  with  me." 

"I  should  have  thought  you  might  have  seen 
it  yesterday."  She  stopped  for  a  moment,  then 
almost  demanded,  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  am  going  back  to  town  at  once;  but  it's  no 
344 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

good  not  being  straight  in  a  matter  of  this  sort, 
and  first  I  shall  have  it  out  with  Lena/' 

"It  will  be  thoroughly  indecent  of  you." 

"  Can't  help  it ;  I'm  going,"  and  he  marched  tow- 
ards the  house  and  into  the  morning-room  again. 

Lena  was  lying  on  the  sofa;  he  went  up  to  her 
and  sat  down  on  the  chair  beside  her,  determined 
to  have  it  over  and  be  done  with  it. 

"Look  here,  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said; 
"this  place  has  become  a  sort  of  nightmare,  and 
I  want  you  to  wake  me  up  from  it  like  a  sensible 
girl." 

"Tell  me  about  it,  Tom,  dear,"  she  said,  and 
wriggled  towards  the  edge  of  the  sofa.  "You 
wouldn't  say  things  to  me  yesterday." 

"Too  much  worried.  Now,  then,"  he  went  on, 
drawing  back  a  little  and  looking  her  well  in  the 
face,  "  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  Margaret  Vincent. 
She  has  been  in  London  for  the  last  three  weeks, 
and  we  have  seen  each  other  every  day — perhaps 
you  didn't  know  that?  It's  all  nonsense  to  sup- 
pose that  she's  in  love  with  Mr.  Garratt;  I  have 
found  out  the  truth  of  that  business.  He  is  merely 
a  bounder  who  went  to  look  after  Hannah,  the 
half-sister,  then  found  out  he  liked  Margaret  bet- 
ter— I  don't  wonder.  Hannah  bothered  her  about 
it,  and  she  went  up  to  town.  Louise  Hunstan 
wired  me  from  Bayreuth  that  Margaret  was  in 
Great  College  Street,  and  I  went  and  looked  after 
345 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

her.  If  this  hadn't  happened — your  wires,  I  mean 
— I  dare  say  I  should  have  got  a  special  license 
by  this  time.  I  want  you  to  be  good  to  Margaret/' 
and  he  put  his  hand  affectionately  on  Lena's.  "I 
love  her  and  don't  mean  to  marry  anybody  else. 
Now,  then,  how  is  it  going  to  be?" 

"Poor  little  Margaret;  I  shall  love  her,"  said 
Lena,  "because  you  do." 

Tom  blinked  his  eyes  to  make  sure  he  was 
awake;  either  Mrs.  Lakeman  was  as  mad  as  a 
March  hare,  he  thought,  or  he  was  dreaming,  for 
there  was  not  a  sign  of  disappointment  in  Lena's 
manner. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  helplessly. 

"It  will  be  nice  for  her  to  marry  you,  dear,"  she 
went  on;  "you  are  so  different  from  Mr.  Garratt." 

"Mr.  Garratt  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  But 
unless  you  take  kindly  to  the  marriage,  of  course 
we  shall  have  to  cut  each  other  afterwards.  Well, 
then,  is  it  all  right?" 

"Of  course  it  is,"  she  said,  and  wriggled  closer 
to  him. 

"Good,  good!  Now  I  am  going,"  he  said,  with 
determination. 

"But  where  are  you  going?"  she  asked,  anx- 
iously. 

"Over  to  Aviemore;  I  know  some  people  there. 
But  I  shall  take  the  train  back  to  London  this 
evening.    It's  all  right,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Lake- 
346 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

man,  who  had  sauntered  up  to  the  window  with  a 
newspaper  in  her  hand;  "Lena's  a  sensible  girl; 
I  knew  she  was." 

Mrs.  Lakeman  looked  at  him  almost  vacantly; 
she  had  ceased  to  take  the  slightest  interest  in  his 
love  affairs.  "Have  you  seen  the  Scotsman?" 
she  asked;  "the  boy  has  just  come  with  it." 

"No;  why?" 

"Cyril  is  dead,  and  Gerald  is  Lord  Eastleigh." 

"Good!  he'll  be  coming  back,"  Tom  answered; 
"  I'm  off  in  half  an  hour,"  he  added. 

"Oh!"  She  was  too  much  preoccupied  even  to 
ask  him  to  stay ;  but  when  he  had  gone,  as  if  with 
a  jerk  she  remembered  the  excitement  of  the  morn- 
ing. "We  made  a  nice  fiasco  over  Tom,"  she  said 
to  Lena ;  "  I  don't  know  which  is  the  greater  idiot, 
you  or  I." 

"It  was  very  interesting,"  Lena  answered. 
"But  I  should  never  have  energy  enough  for  the 
life  he  likes.  I  can't  bear  coarse  effects  or  strong 
lights  or  exercise,  or  any  of  the  things  he  cares 
for — people  should  always  be  restful." 

"You  had  better  marry  a  minor  poet,"  Mrs. 
Lakeman  answered,  grimly,  "  or  an  inferior  paint- 
er, and  live  in  a  Chelsea  studio." 


MARGARET    VINCENT 


XXXV 

TOM  CARRINGFORD  went  straight  to  Great 
College  Street  the  next  morning.  Margaret,  of 
course,  was  not  there;  but  Louise  Hunstan  had 
arrived,  and  from  her  and  Mrs.  Gilman  together 
he  heard  of  Mrs.  Lakeman's  visit;  of  Margaret's 
assertion  that  her  engagement  was  broken  off ;  of 
how  Sir  George  Stringer  and  Dawson  Farley  had 
been  to  see  her,  and  of  Margaret's  hurried  depart- 
ure to  Chidhurst. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Hunstan  when  they  were 
alone,  and  the  little  twang  Tom  always  liked  had 
come  into  her  voice,  "  I  think  this  is  a  matter  that 
requires  some  investigation;  you  know  it's  my 
opinion  that  Lena  Lakeman  is  just  a  little  snake, 
and  that  her  mother  doesn't  always  know  what 
she's  about — still,  they're  amusing  people  if  you 
don't  see  too  much  of  them." 

"Oh,  they're  all  right,  if  you  don't  take  them 
too  seriously,"  he  answered,  incapable  of  think- 
ing ill  of  any  one.  He  was  not  in  the  least  alarmed 
at  Margaret's  statement  to  Mrs.  Gilman.  He 
knew  that  Margaret  loved  him,  and  that,  if  any 
mischief  had  been  made,  why,  it  would  soon  be  ex- 
348 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

plained  away.  The  thing  that  astonished  him 
was  Mrs.  Lakeman's  visit.  "I  can't  think  how 
she  could  have  been  shut  up  in  her  room  with  neu- 
ralgia and  in  London  at  the  same  time/'  he  said 
to  himself.  "She  is  certainly  mad!  However, 
that  doesn't  matter.  I  shall  go  to  Chidhurst  this 
afternoon.  I  might  be  of  some  use,  and  I  want 
to  see  Margaret."  He  knew  that,  if  her  mother 
were  ill,  she  would  be  unhappy  and  want  him, 
and,  like  the  kind  boy  he  was,  he  began  cast- 
ing about  in  his  mind  for  things  he  could  take 
Mrs.  Vincent.  There  were  heaps  of  flowers 
in  the  Dutch  garden,  of  course;  but  she  might 
like  a  box  of  roses,  all  the  same,  and  Mar- 
garet would  remember  the  first  one  they  had 
bought  together  —  and  peaches  and  grapes;  he 
didn't  remember  seeing  any  glass  at  Woodside 
Farm;  perhaps  they  hadn't  any.  "I'm  awfully 
fond  of  Margey,"  he  said  to  Louise  Hunstan,  glad 
to  put  it  into  words,  "and  we  shall  have  a  splendid 
time  together.  You  '11  often  see  us  here,  you  know. ' ' 

"Of  course  I  shall,"  she  answered;  "I  am  just 
looking  forward  to  it." 

He  stopped  at  Sir  George  Stringer's  house  as  he 
drove  through  Whitehall,  but  only  to  find  that 
he  had  gone  to  Chidhurst.  "Good,"  he  said,  ab- 
sently, to  himself,  "I'll  telegraph  to  him,  and  he'll 
put  me  up." 

Tom  remembered  all  his  life  the  drive  from  Hasle- 
349 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

mere  to  Chidhurst  that  evening.  He  enjoyed  ev- 
ery yard  of  it ;  up  the  hill  and  past  the  cottages, 
along  the  road  beyond;  beside  the  moor  covered 
with  ling,  and  through  Chidhurst  village,  till  he 
came  in  sight  of  the  church,  and  the  gates  of  Sir 
George  Stringer's  house  just  opposite  the  little 
gate  that  led  across  the  fields  to  the  farm.  He 
looked  at  the  box  of  roses  and  the  basket  of  peaches 
and  grapes  on  the  driver's  seat.  "I  hope  my 
mother-in-law  is  better,"  he  thought,  with  a  happy 
laugh  in  his  eyes.  "I  believe  I  shall  be  fond  of 
her,  and  Vincent  is  a  brick." 

"You  know  there's  a  death  at  the  farm,  sir?" 
the  driver  said,  as  he  got  down.  "Mrs.  Vincent 
was  took  last  night  after  two  days'  illness — she 
hadn't  been  herself  for  some  time." 

An  hour  later  a  little  note  was  brought  to  Mar- 
garet. It  ran  : 

"  DEAREST,— I  am  at  Stringer's  house,  and  have  just 
heard.  I  know  how  unhappy  you  must  be,  and  there 
isn't  anything  to  say  except  that  I  love  you,  which  you 
know  already.  I  am  glad  I  saw  her.  Send  for  me  when 
you  can  see  me;  I  shall  be  waiting  here.  Your  devoted 

"  TOM." 

And  so  that  trouble  was  lifted  from  Margaret's 
heart;  but  her  tears  fell  fast  while  she  read  the 
letter. 

"If  mother  were  only  here,"  she  thought,  "and 
I  can't  bear  to  tell  Hannah,  for  she  has  nothing 
350 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

in  her  life — nothing  to  look  forward  to.  Towsey  \" 
she  said,  going  into  the  kitchen.  Towsey  gave 
a  start;  she  was  almost  asleep.  Margaret  sat 
down  on  her  lap,  as  she  had  often  done  years  ago 
when  she  was  a  little  girl,  and  she  put  her  arms 
round  Towsey's  neck,  and  cried  for  a  minute  or 
two  softly  on  her  shoulder.  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
something/'  she  said,  when  she  looked  up;  "are 
you  sure  that  mother  smiled  when  she  had  the  tele- 
gram that  last  day  she  was  alive?" 

"Ay,  that  she  did,"  said  Towsey;  "it  didn't 
hold  much,  but  she  seemed  to  read  a  great  deal 
into  it,  somehow." 

"Thank  God!  She  must  have  known.  It  was 
from  Mr.  Carringford,  Towsey." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Towsey,  "and  she  thought 
how  it  'd  be." 

It  was  almost  more  than  Margaret  could  bear. 
"If  I  had  only  not  gone  away,"  she  cried,  "mother, 
dear! — mother,  dear!" 

Mr.  Vincent,  to  call  him  by  his  old  name,  did  not 
return  nearly  so  soon  as  he  might  have  done. 
There  were  his  brother's  affairs  to  wind  up,  he  said, 
and  his  brother's  wife  to  settle  down  in  a  house  at 
Melbourne.  Perhaps  he  dreaded  returning  to  the 
farm  alone.  At  any  rate,  he  made  excuses,  and 
it  was  nearly  four  months  before  he  wrote  that  in 
another  fortnight  he  would  set  sail. 
351 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

All  that  time  Tom  and  Margaret  were  waiting 
to  be  married.  Tom  had  argued  that  it  would 
be  better  to  do  it  quietly  and  at  once,  but  Margaret 
refused. 

"Not  yet,"  she  pleaded;  "let  us  wait  the  few 
months  till  father  returns.  We  have  all  our  lives 
to  give  each  other.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  go 
into  the  little  church  to  be  married  just  yet,  for 
it's  only —  '  She  stopped,  for  she  did  not  want 
him  to  know  that  she  dreaded  lest  she  should  still 
hear  the  sound  of  the  heavy,  shuffling  feet  that  had 
carried  her  mother  into  it  for  the  last  time.  She 
wanted  to  forget  it,  to  remember  only  the  long, 
happy  years,  and  the  summer  mornings  she  had 
sat  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  in  the  cool  living-place, 
with  her  mother  leaning  against  her  while  they 
watched  the  sunshine  covering  the  Dutch  garden 
with  glory. 

"We  might  be  married  at  some  other  church 
if  you  liked,"  he  suggested. 

"Oh  no,"  she  answered,  quickly,  "I  wouldn't 
for  the  world.  I  want  to  be  married  near  the  dear 
farm — and  near  her:  she  would  be  happy  if  she 
knew;  she  would  listen  and  be  so  glad.  Oh,  Tom, 
you  do  understand,  don't  you,  darling?"  For 
answer  he  nodded,  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her,  which  is  always  the  best  answer  a  man  can 
give  the  woman  who  loves  him. 

And  so  they  waited  till  the  winter  had  gone,  a 
352 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

long,  silent  winter,  though  it  held  its  whispered 
happiness.  February  came  cold  and  clear.  The 
men  were  busy  in  the  fields,  turning  the  brown 
earth  over,  and  here  and  there,  under  the  hedges, 
a  snowdrop  hid,  lonely  and  shivering.  Then  one 
day  Hannah  made  a  really  brilliant  remark,  or 
Tom,  at  any  rate,  thought  it  one. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  get  married  directly 
father  comes,  either,"  she  said;  "he'll  find  it  hard 
enough  to  come  back  to  an  empty  house;  you 
can't  well  fling  a  wedding  in  his  face.  For  my 
part,  I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  get  it 
over  beforehand,  and  go  and  meet  him." 

Tom  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  then  he  shook 
her  hand  vigorously,  as  he  always  did  when 
anything  pleased  him  mightily.  "  You  are  quite 
right,"  he  said,  and  the  next  minute  he  was  strid- 
ing down  the  Dutch  garden  on  his  way  to  the 
cathedral  where  Margaret  was  waiting  for  him. 
"  Look  here,"  he  said,  when  he  found  her,  "  Hannah 
has  had  a  brilliant  idea.  Some  one  ought  to  go  and 
meet  your  father;  he  can't  come  back  here  alone, 
you  know." 

"Oh,  Tom,"  she  said,  "I  have  often  thought 
how  dreadful  it  will  be  for  him." 

"Of  course  it  will,  and  we  have  no  business  to 
let  him  do  it.  Suppose  we  went  out  and  picked  him 
up  at  Naples  and  brought  him  home  ourselves. 
You  see,  Hannah  could  make  everything  corn- 
's 353 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

fortable  here  while  we  are  gone — alter  things  a 
bit,  and  so  on.  And  we  might  keep  him  two  or 
three  days  in  Stratton  Street  on  the  way  back, 
and  get  Hannah  up  there."  All  manner  of  de- 
velopments crossed  his  fertile  mind  while  he  spoke. 
"We  must  get  married  before  we  start/'  he  said, 
in  a  business-like  tone,  as  if  it  were  only  a  matter 
of  convenience,  "or  we  should  have  to  get  a  chap- 
eron, which  would  be  rather  a  bore." 

And  so  it  came  about  that  they  were  married 
very  quietly  one  morning  six  months  after  Mrs. 
Vincent's  death.  Hannah  and  Margaret  walked 
across  the  fields  together,  and  Tom  and  Sir  George 
Stringer  met  them  at  the  church  gate,  but  there 
were  no  others  present. 

Tom's  sister,  Lady  Arthur  Wanstead,  sent  Mar- 
garet a  diamond  comb  and  a  long  letter,  and  Mrs. 
Lakeman  sent  her  a  fitted  travelling-bag,  and 
Lena  sent  a  full-sized  green  porcelain  cat. 

It  is  just  two  years  since  that  morning  at  the 
church.  The  Carringfords  are  at  Florence  now, 
and  Lord  Eastleigh,  and  Sir  George  Stringer,  who 
has  retired  from  his  office,  are  with  them,  and  they 
are  looking  forward  to  Louise  Hunstan,  who  is 
coming  out  on  a  six  weeks'  holiday.  Lena  Lake- 
man has  married  an  army  doctor  and  gone  to 
India;  and  Mrs.  Lakeman,  who  was  very  angry 
t  Lena's  marriage,  which  she  thought  a  bad  one, 
to  speculating  in  West  African  mines,  and 
354 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

left  England  lately  in  order  to  look  after  her  vent- 
ures. It  was  said  last  year  that  she  had  made  a 
great  fortune ;  but,  even  if  it  is  true,  she  will  prob- 
ably lose  it  again,  and  console  herself  with  the 
thought  that  the  sensation  of  being  a  beggar  is 
altogether  a  new  one. 

Hannah  is  at  Chidhurst  alone,  and  something 
that  would  be  almost  droll  seems  possible.  One 
afternoon  a  stranger  appeared  at  the  farm,  a 
loutish  -  looking  man  of  six -and -thirty,  but  with 
more  intelligence  in  him  than  appeared  on  the 
surface.  He  was  a  student  of  agriculture,  he  ex- 
plained, second  son  of  a  land-owner  in  Somerset, 
and  had  a  fancy  for  renting  a  property  in  Surrey. 
He  had  heard  that  Woodside  Farm  might  possibly 
want  a  tenant.  Hannah  assured  him  to  the  con- 
trary with  some  asperity;  but  eventually,  being 
overcome  by  the  stranger's  manner,  she  not  only 
showed  him  over  the  farm,  but,  since  he  had  come 
from  a  distance,  gave  him  tea  with  a  dish  of  chicken 
fried  in  batter,  and  scones  that  had  been  hurriedly 
made  by  Towsey.  She  explained  to  him  while 
the  meal  progressed  that  she  found  the  farm  some- 
what difficult  to  manage  single-handed.  The 
stranger  felt  the  truth  of  this,  and  she  struck  him 
as  being  a  most  sensible  and  capable  woman.  A 
farm,  he  told  her,  wanted  a  man  to  look  after  it, 
to  which  she  agreed  and  invited  him  to  come 
again. 

355 


MARGARET    VINCENT 

"The  coming  of  the  stranger/'  said  Margaret 
to  Tom  when  she  had  read  a  prim  letter  in  Hannah's 
spiky  writing. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  then  her  mean- 
ing dawned  on  him.  "Good!  good!"  he  said; 
"history  makes  a  point  of  repeating  itself,  you 
know.  I  shouldn't  wonder — " 

"And  I  shouldn't/'  she  laughed. 

Meanwhile  the  villagers  nod  their  heads  and 
say  that  this  year  spring  cleaning  was  even  more 
thorough  than  usual  at  Woodside  Farm. 


THE    END 


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PEMBROKE.    $i  50. 

Miss  Mai<y  Wilkins  has  fairly  surpassed  her  predecessors 
in  this  kind  of  fiction. — The  Times.  This  is  the  gem  of  Miss 
Wilkins's  very  remarkable  production. — The  Spectator. 

MADELON.    $i  25. 

YOUNG    LUCRETIA,    and   other   Stories.     Illus- 
trated.    $i  25. 
We  know  of  no  one  who  can  write  a  short  story  with  such 

art  and  simplicity  as  Miss  Wilkins,  and  every  tale  is  invested 

with  a  charm  and  a  pathos  which  it  would  be  hard  to  match. 

—Birmingham  Daily  Gazette. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

liTAny  of  the  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  pre- 
paid, to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico, 
on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BY  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 


CARDIGAN.    Illustrated.     $i  50. 

A  rattling  good  Indian  story  of  the  days  just  before  the 
Revolution.  The  descriptions  of  frontier  life  and  Indian 
fighting  remind  one  of  Stephen  Crane  at  his  best.  The  love 
affair  between  Cardigan  and  "  Silver  Heels  "  is  one  of  the 
most  original  in  recent  fiction. 

The  picture  of  Pittsburg  fashionable  society  in  1774,  the 
balls,  races,  taverns,  diversions,  the  intrigue  of  Lord  Dunmore, 
the  elopement  and  pursuit,  the  savagery  of  Indian  warfare, 
the  treachery  of  the  Tories,  are  of  the  most  exciting  and 
wonderful  character. — Pittsburg  Post. 

THE  CONSPIRATORS.     Illustrated.      Post  8vo, 
Cloth,  $i  50. 

There  is  an  unmistakable  brilliancy  about  "  The  Con- 
spirators " ;  the  rollicking  spirits  of  the  hero,  the  man  who 
tells  the  story,  are  infectious,  and  his  ardor  in  love  is  delight- 
fully romantic. — Chicago  Tribune. 

LORRAINE.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $i  25. 

"Lorraine  "  will  appeal  irresistibly  to  those  who  appreciate 
the  best  type  of  adventure  story,  and  is  to  be  further  com- 
mended for  its  historical  color  and  for  the  delicacy  of  its  love 
element. 

Of  this  novel  The  Interior  says :  "  A  more  absorbing 
story  could  scarcely  be  imagined ;  there  is  no  better  tale  among 
recent  publications  than  '  Lorraine.'  " 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

ny  of  the  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  pre- 
paid, to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on 
receipt  of  the  price. 


BY  THOMAS  HARDY 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 
Two  ON  A  To  WEB. 

THE   WOODLANDEBS. 

FAB  FBOM  THE  MADDING 

CBOWD. 

WESSEX  TALES. 
A  LAODICEAN. 
TESS    OF    THE    D'URBEB- 

VILLES. 


JUDE  THE  OBSCUBE. 
THE  HAND  OF  ETHELBEBTA 
A  PAIB  OF  BLUE  EYES. 
THE    MATOB    OF    CASTER- 

BRIDGE. 

THE  TRUMPET-MAJOB. 
UNDEB    THE    GREENWOOD 

TREE. 
RETURN  OF  THK  NATIVE. 


THE  WELL-BELOVED. 
Uniform  Edition.     Illustrated.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth, 

$1  50  per  volume. 
WESSEX  POEMS,  and  Other  Verses.     Illustrated  by  the 

Author.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 
LIFE'S  LITTLE  IRONIES.     Tales.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Orna- 
mental, $1  25. 
A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES.   Illustrated.    12mo,  Cloth, 

Ornamental,  $1  25. 
FELLOW-TOWNSMEN.     32mo,  Cloth,  35  cents. 

Hardy  has  an  exquisite  vein  of  humor.  .  .  .  He  has  a  reserve 
force,  so  to  speak,  of  imagination,  of  invention,  which  keeps  the 
interest  undimiuished  always,  thougli  the  personages  in  the  drama 
may  be  few  and  their  adventures  unremarkable.  But  most  of  *•!! 
he  has  shown  the  pity  and  the  beauty  of  human  life,  most  of  all  he 
has  enlarged  the  boundaries  of  sympathy  and  charity.— New  York 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

iy  Any  of  the  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any 
part  of  the  United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


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